CHAPTER XXXIV
As Christopher was preparing to leave the works one Saturday afternoon he was told that a man had just arrived from Birmingham who refused to give his name, but who asked for him. Christopher hung for a moment on the step of his car and then descending again went straight to the room where his unknown visitor was waiting. He proved to be a spare, stooping man, with lips so thin and white as to be almost invisible. His eyes, which he hardly raised from the floor, were bright with the fire of fever, and his shaking hands, one of which held a cap, concealing the other, were narrow, and the knuckles stood out with cruel prominence.
“What do you want with me?” Christopher demanded shortly.
The man looked at him sideways and did not move, but he spoke in an uncertain, quavering voice.
“You are Masters’ son, ar’n’t you?”
Christopher turned on him with fierce amazement, and checked himself.
“Answer my question, if you have anything to say to me, and leave my private affairs alone,” he said sternly.
“There you are,” grinned the man, the thin mouth widening to a distorted semblance of a smile, “seems to me, seems to my mates ’tain’t such a private affair, neither, leastways we pay for it.”
Christopher’s instinct to turn the man out struggled with his curiosity to know what it all meant. He stood still, therefore, with his eyes fixed on the weirdly displeasing face and neglected to look at the twitching hands. 357