"I daresay you can help me with this if you will," he said presently. "I shall turn some workmen on to it next week. Perhaps you will keep an eye on them for me, decide on the decorations, and so forth. It is my agent's house, you know."
"Where is your agent?" asked West abruptly.
Babbacombe smiled a little. "At the present moment—I have no agent. That is what keeps me so busy. I hope to have one before long."
West strolled to a window and opened it, leaning his arms upon the sill.
He seemed about to relapse into one of his interminable silences when Babbacombe, standing behind him, said quietly, "I am going to offer the post to you."
"To me?" West wheeled suddenly, even with vehemence. "What for?" he demanded sharply.
Babbacombe met his look, still faintly smiling. "For our mutual benefit," he said. "I am convinced that you have ample ability for this sort of work, and if you will accept the post I shall be very pleased."
He stopped at that, determined for once to make the man speak on his own initiative. West was looking straight at him, and there was a curious glitter in his eyes like the sparkle of ice in the sun.
When he spoke at length his speech, though curt, was not so rigorously emotionless as usual.
"Don't you think," he said, "that you have carried this tomfoolery of yours far enough?"