The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman

Sally's feet. No threats now: another tactic this time. She smiled and held out her hand.
    Slightly nonplussed, the man took it.

    "I am given to understand that you want to see Mr. Bellmann," he said. "Let me make an appointment for you. Perhaps you can tell me what the matter is about, so that—"
    "The only appointment I shall make is to see Mr. Bellmann in three minutes' time. Otherwise I shall go to the Pall Mall Gazette and tell them precisely what I know about Mr. Bellmanns connection with the Swedish Match Company's liquidation. I mean it. Three minutes."
    He gulped, shot his cuffs, and vanished. In fact, Sally knew nothing for certain; there'd been rumors, whispers about irregularities, but nothing concrete. However, it seemed to be working. Two and a half minutes later, she was shown into the presence of Axel Bellmann. He did not get up from his desk.
    "Well?" he said. "I warned you. Miss Lockhart."
    "You warned me about what, exactly? Let's be clear about it, Mr. Bellmann. What exactly must I stop doing, and what exactly will you do if I don't?"
    She sat down calmly, though her heart was beating hard. Bellmann had a massive presence: it reminded her of the stillness of some huge dynamo spinning so fast that it seemed not to move at all. He looked at her heavily.
    "You must stop trying to understand matters which are too deep for you," he said after a few moments.

    "And if you do not, I shall make it known to everyone who is in a position to help you or to employ you that you are an immoral woman, living on immoral earnings."
    "I beg your pardon?"
    The expression around his eyes changed unpleas-andy: she realized that he was smiling. He reached into a drawer and took out a bufF-colored folder.
    "I have here a record of visits paid by unaccompanied men to your place of business in North Street. During the past month no less than twenty-four such visits have been made. Only the other night, for example, a man called very late—^at half past ten, to be precise—^was admitted by yourself, and stayed for most of an hour before leaving. When my secretary, Mr. Windlesham, visited your so-called office yesterday, he noticed that it contained, among other furniture, a large divan. As if that were not enough, you are known to associate with a Webster Garland, a photographer who has made a speciality of photographing—how shall I put it—the nude."
    She bit her lip—careful, careful.
    "You re quite wrong," she said as calmly as she could. "Mr. Garland specializes in portraiture, as a matter of fact. As for the rest of that absurd nonsense—if that's the worst you can find to fight me with, you might as well give up."
    He raised his eyebrows. "How naive you are. You will

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    find out quite soon how much damage an allegation like that can do. A young woman, alone, making money . . . disreputable associates ..."
    He smiled again, and she felt chilly, because he was quite right. There was no defense against that sort of smear. Ignore it, she thought. Get on.
    "I don't want to waste time, Mr. Bellmann," she said. "If I come to see you again, I had better be admitted at once. Now to the point: Your involvement in the Anglo-Baltic Steam Navigation Company has cost a client of mine her life's savings. Her name is Miss Susan Walsh. She was a teacher. A good woman. She's given her life to her pupils and to girls' education. She's harmed no one and done a great deal of good, and now that she's retired she's entitled to live on the money she'd saved. I advised her to invest in Anglo-Baltic.
    "Now do you see why it concerns you? You ruined that company deliberately and by stealth. In doing so you lost a great many people money, and they all deserve reparation; but they're not all my clients. I will have a check, please, made out for the sum of three thousand two hundred and forty pounds, to be paid to Miss Susan Walsh. The sum is itemized here."
    She dropped a folded piece of paper on the desk. He did not