The Turn of the Tide by Fred M. White — Read

Left to himself in the solitude of the dingy old offices in Great Bower Street, Mark Gilmour sat down at his desk in a small back room looking out over the Thames, and proceeded to immerse himself in a mass of correspondence. He had the whole office for his own since the last of the clerks had departed, and a supreme silence reigned everywhere. At that hour in the evening Great Bower Street was absolutely deserted, for it was a business quarter entirely, and, save for a caretaker or night watchman here and there, there was probably not a soul within a quarter of a mile. Outside a gentle rain had commenced to fall through a curtain of fog, which rendered the young March night thick as a blanket. From time to time Gilmour could hear shouts and calls from the river, and occasionally a heavy dray rumbled along the cobbled street. The mice were busy behind the rotting wainscot and the decayed oak panelling on the walls. Once a rat ran across the floor, and dived into a hole by the side of what once had been a magnificent marble fireplace in the old days when Great Bower Street had been a residential quarter for opulent City merchants, what time George III was king. A big grandfather's clock ticked lazily in the corner of the office, and as it struck the hour of eight Gilmour rose and put away the mass of papers before him in a safe.

He appeared to have forgotten entirely that, at that very moment, he was due to dine at the Moat House, and if he had any recollection of this, then there was no sign of disappointment or regret upon that hard, white, battling face of his.