Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (217 page)

Reprinted
by permission of executor of the Estate of Sir Arthur Gonan Doyle.

The
Silver Mirror

By
A.
CONAN
DOYLE

January
3.

T
his
affair of white and wothersfoon's accounts proves to
be
a
gigantic
task.
There
are
twenty
thick
ledgers
to
be
examined and
checked.
Who
would
be
a
junior
partner?
However,
it
is
the first
big
bit
of
business
which
has
been
left
entirely
in
my
hands. I
must
justify
it.
But
it
has
to
be
finished
so
that
the
lawyers
may have
the
result
in
time
for
the
trial.
Johnson
said
this
morning
that I
should
have
to
get
the
last
figure
out
before
the
twentieth
of
the month.
Good
Lord!
Well,
have
at
it,
and
if
human
brain
and
nerve can
stand
the
strain,
I'll
win
out
at
the
other
side.
It
means
office-work
from
ten
to
five,
and
then
a
second
sitting
from
about
eight to
one
in
the
morning.
There's
drama
in
an
accountant's
life.
When I
find
myself
in
the
still
early
hours,
while
all
the
world
sleeps,
hunting
through
column
after
column
for
those
missing
figures
which
will turn
a
respected
alderman
into
a
felon,
I
understand
that
it
is
not such
a
prosaic
profession
after
all.

On
Monday
I
came
on
the
first
trace
of
defalcation.
No
heavy game
hunter
ever
got
a
finer
thrill
when
first
he
caught
sight
of
the trail
of
his
quarry.
But
I
look
at
the
twenty
ledgers
and
think
of the
jungle
through
which
I
have
to
follow
him
before
I
get
my
kill. Hard
work—but
rare
sport,
too,
in
a
way!
I
saw
the
fat
fellow
once at
a
City
dinner,
his
red
face
glowing
above
a
white
napkin.
He looked
at
the
little
pale
man
at
the
end
of
the
table.
He
would
have been
pale
too
if
he
could
have
seen
the
task
that
would
be
mine.

January
6.

What
perfect
nonsense
it
is
for
doctors
to
prescribe
rest
when rest
is
out
of
the
question!
Asses!
They
might
as
well
shout
to
a man
who
has
a
pack
of
wolves
at
his
heels
that
what
he
wants
is absolute
quiet.
My
figures
must
be
out
by
a
certain
date;
unless they
are
so,
I
shall
lose
the
chance
of
my
lifetime,
so
how
on
earth am
I
to
rest?
I'll
take
a
week
or
so
after
the
trial.

Perhaps
I
was
myself
a
fool
to
go
to
the
doctor
at
all.
But
I
get nervous
and
highly-strung
when
I
sit
alone
at
my
work
at
night.
It's not
a
pain—only
a
sort
of
fullness
of
the
head
with
an
occasional mist
over
the
eyes.
I
thought
perhaps
some
bromide,
or
chloral,
or something
of
the
kind
might
do
me
good.
But
stop
work?
It's
absurd to
ask
such
a
thing.
It's
like
a
long
distance
race.
You
feel
queer
at first
and
your
heart
thumps
and
your
lungs
pant,
but
if
you
have only
the
pluck
to
keep
on,
you
get
your
second
wind.
I'll
stick
to my
work
and
wait
for
my
second
wind.
If
it
never
comes—all
the same,
I'll
stick
to
my
work.
Two
ledgers
are
done,
and
I
am
well on
in
the
third.
The
rascal
has
covered
his
tracks
well,
but
I
pick them
up
for
all
that.