Abel Death tapped his waistcoat pocket. "It used to be a gold one."
"Now I call that clever of you," said Mr. Reginald, half merrily, half lugubriously, "but your lines have not been cast in pleasant places; you should know something of the process."
"I do," said Abel Death, in a dismal tone.
"If the watch I now wear is an indication of my having come down in the world, why, then, I have had a tumble. Am I interrupting your work?"
"I have the books to make up."
"I'll leave you to them. Would it be unfair to ask you to tell my father that I will call again at ten o'clock? He is sure to be disengaged at that hour."
"Very unfair, Mr. Reginald. I wouldn't venture to tell him that I'd seen you."
"In that case I'll not trouble you."
"And if you do call again, Mr. Reginald, I beg you, as a particular favour, not to mention your present visit."
"You have my promise." He turned to go, but paused to glance at the strange collection of goods in the room. "My father gets plenty of odd things about him. I see stories of wreckage in them."