Old Crampton resumed his seat, and for an hour and three-quarters, during which period Harry had several times looked at the clock and yawned, there was a constant scratching of pens.
Then Harry Vine descended from his stool.
“I’d better go now?”
“Yes, sir, you’d better go now. And might have gone before for all the good you’ve done,” grumbled the old man, as Harry passed the window. “Tut—tut—tut! What careless writing. He’s spoiling my books, that he is.”
The old man had hardly spent another half-hour over his work when there was a sharp tapping at the door, such as might be given by the knob on a stick.
“Come in.”
The door was opened, and Pradelle entered and gave a sharp look round.
“Morning,” he said in a cavalier way. “Tell Mr Vine I want to speak to him for a moment.”
Old Crampton looked up from his writing, and fixed his eyes on the visitor’s hat.
“Not at home,” he said shortly.