“Bother!” muttered Harry, frowning.
“The white in a wineglassful of cold. Pour one into the other—and—drink—while effervescing.”
The intervals between some of the words were filled up by scratches of the pen.
“Headache, eh? Bad things, sir, bad things.”
He removed himself from his stool and went to the safe in the inner office, where Van Heldre generally sat, and Harry raised his head from his desk and listened, as he heard the rattling of keys and the clang of a small iron door.
“Yes, bad things headaches, Mr Harry,” said the old man returning. “Try early hours for ’em, and look here: Mr Van Heldre says—”
“Has he been in the office this morning?” cried Harry hastily.
“Yes, sir, he came in as soon as I’d come, nine to the minute, and he wants you to join him at the tin works about twelve.”
“Wigging!” said guilty conscience.
“Do your head good, sir.”