The boy smiled. “It's that business of the Wark timber contract, sir,” he said. “You promised you'd look into it to-day; you know you've shelved it for a week already, and Craig, Burnage are rather clamoring for an answer.” He moved forward and laid the papers he was carrying on the table beside Chilcote. “I'm sorry to be such a nuisance,” he added. “I hope your nerves aren't worrying you to-day?”
Chilcote was toying with the papers. At the word nerves he glanced up suspiciously. But Blessington's ingenuous face satisfied him.
“No,” he said. “I settled my nerves last night with—with a bromide. I knew that fog would upset me unless I took precautions.”
“I'm glad of that, sir—though I'd avoid bromides. Bad habit to set up. But this Wark business—I'd like to get it under way, if you have no objection.”
Chilcote passed his fingers over the papers. “Were you out in that fog last night, Blessington?”
“No, sir. I supped with some people at the Savoy, and we just missed it. It was very partial, I believe.”
“So I believe.”
Blessington put his hand to his neat tie and pulled it. He was extremely polite, but he had an inordinate sense of duty.
“Forgive me, sir,” he said, “but about that contract—I know I'm a frightful bore.”
“Oh, the contract!” Chilcote looked about him absently. “By-the-way, did you see anything of my wife yesterday? What did she do last night?”