He could not get on with his story.
"Here, take these away," roared Maitland.
Gathering up the sheets with fingers that trembled helplessly, Wickes crept hurriedly out through the door, leaving a man behind him furiously, helplessly struggling in the relentless grip of his conscience, lashed with a sense of his own injustice.

His anger which had found vent upon his old bookkeeper he knew was due another man, a man with whom at any cost he could never allow himself to be angry.

The next two hours were bad hours for Grant Maitland.
As the quitting whistle blew a tap came again to the office door.

It was Wickes, with a paper in his hand.

Without a word he laid the paper upon his chief's desk and turned away.