CHAPTER V
On the third floor of a house in Delahay Street there used to be a room which was at once sitting-room and "workshop." A blue plate here and there over the mirror, the shabby arm-chair on the hearth, and a modest collection of books on the wall, gave it an air of home. The long white table, littered with plans and paints, before the window, and a theodolite in the corner, showed that it served for office too.
A man familiar with that interior had just entered the passage, and as he began to ascend the stairs a smile of anticipated welcome softened the rigidity of his face. He was a tall, loosely-built man, who was generally credited with five more years than the two-and-thirty he had really seen; a man who, a physiognomist would have asserted, formed few friendships and was a stanch friend. Possibly it was the gauntness of the face that caused him to appear older than he was, possibly its gravity. He did not look as if he laughed readily, as if he saw much in life to laugh at. He did not look impulsive, or emotional, or a man to be imagined singing a song. He could be pictured the one cool figure in a scene of panic with greater facility than participating in the enthusiasm of a grand-stand. Not that you found his aspect heroic, but that you could not conceive him excited.
He turned the handle as he knocked at the door, and strode into the room without awaiting a response. The occupant dropped his T-square with a clatter, giving a quick halloa:
"Philip! Dear old chap!"
Dr. Kincaid gripped the outstretched hand.
"How are you?" he said.
Walter Corri pushed him into the shabby chair, and lounged against the mantelpiece, smiling down at him.
"How are you?" repeated Dr. Kincaid.