The House on the River by Fred M. White

At the very moment when Quint and Somerset were gazing in fascinated astonishment at the face of Kent looking out of the public-house window, fate was taking a hand at the game only a few miles away. In his office in Fenchurch Street, Claw sat immersed in the contemplation of a mass of figures which he had taken from his private safe and was now puzzling over with a knitted brow and an almost painful compression of his thick lips. The big bald head was bowed down and the heavy crimson cheeks were not quite as florid as usual. If ever there was a man who was sore afraid it was John Claw at that moment. The mere contemplation of the figures before him caused him to start and tremble at every passing sound.

Outside in the clerk's office there was every suggestion of bustle and prosperity. People came and went, but Claw had given strict orders that he was not to be interrupted for the next hour. He gazed almost hopelessly round the luxuriously-furnished office before he went back to his figures again. He felt half-inclined to lock the door, to deny himself to everybody, and when the time for closing came slink off to his chambers and there seclude himself from the world. But that was impossible. There were people to see and directions to be given before he could turn his back upon the city and seek the seclusion of his rooms.