“What time?”
“In half an hour.”
“I will ride with you a few miles,” I said.
He turned and went to his quarters, which were next to mine. I was still at work when Charlie Thurkow came in. He had changed his dress clothes for an old working suit. I was working in my evening dress—a subtle difference.
“Do you want any help?” he asked. I could hear a grievance in his voice.
“Of course; get on packing that case; plenty of straw between the bottles.”
He obeyed me, working slowly, badly, without concentration, as he always did.
“It's a beastly shame, isn't it?” he muttered presently.
“Yes,” I answered, “it is.”
I suppose he did not detect the sarcasm.