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

Rust walked into the library, the lights of which were turned on now, and found Gilmour seated there smoking a cigarette, and more or less busy over what appeared to be a mass of accounts which lay on the big leather-bound table before him. There was no great friendship between the two men, though they were both in the same office, for Gilmour regarded Rust as a mere amateur and dilettante whose presence in Great Bower Street was a mere episode, and from Rust's point of view Gilmour was a money-making machine whose horizon was bounded by commercial opportunism. But they were guests under the same roof now, and it behoved Rust to be polite.

Still, Gilmour showed a very presentable appearance as he sat there in his immaculate evening dress, neat and well-groomed, as if he had just turned out of his chambers on his way to dine somewhere. He would have passed anywhere from the sleek well-brushed head to the patent leather pumps on his feet. He was warm and comfortable now, and it was almost impossible to connect him with the shivering hunted creature who had crept breathlessly into the library not more than half an hour ago.