Wilson watched him. He watched him as a dog, rolled up on the hearth-rug, watches its master, with wide-open eyes and unblinking lids, eyes which have no other hope than to reflect the expected movement on the master's part. Would Shears break silence? Would he reveal the secret of his present dreams and admit Wilson to the realm of meditation into which he felt that he was not allowed to enter uninvited?
Shears continued silent.
Wilson ventured upon a remark:
"Things are very quiet. There's not a single case for us to nibble at."
Shears was more and more fiercely silent; but the rings of tobacco-smoke became more and more successful and any one but Wilson would have observed that Shears obtained from this the profound content which we derive from the minor achievements of our vanity, at times when our brain is completely void of thought.
Disheartened, Wilson rose and walked to the window. The melancholy street lay stretched between the gloomy fronts of the houses, under a dark sky whence fell an angry and pouring rain. A cab drove past; another cab. Wilson jotted down their numbers in his note-book. One can never tell!
The postman came down the street, gave a treble knock at the door; and, presently, the servant entered with two registered letters.
"You look remarkably pleased," said Wilson, when Shears had unsealed and glanced through the first.
"This letter contains a very attractive proposal. You were worrying about a case: here is one. Read it."
Wilson took the letter and read: