A week before Christmas I sat staring at samples of my raw materials spread over the laboratory table. Chitty was rinsing test tubes at the sink.
"It does beat the devil, Chitty," I said, "to think that the answer to all our trouble is staring right at us from one of these heaps of samples, and we can't find it."
"Yessir," Chitty agreed. "Don't give up, sir; 'ave another try."
I looked at my watch. It was three o'clock; the short winter day was already dusk without. A London and Northwestern express screeched past our windows.
"I'd like my overcoat, please, Chitty. I'm going home." A queer, startled look came into his face.
"You're not giving up, Mister Edward? You won't tell them you're beaten? 'Ave another shot at your last experiment. I don't mind working late tonight, sir."
"Chitty," I said, "sometimes it pays to cut your losses and start afresh. We're up a blind passage. Let's turn round and walk out of it."
He helped me into my great coat with a doubtful air.
"Don't let them say it's done you in, sir," he said. "Come back tomorrow morning. You never know your luck, sir."
"I'll be here at the usual time, Chitty." And with this I left him.