“And he is going to set on at ‘em, now, and he’ll be at ‘em till morning light!” continued Judith’s whisper. “And he’ll drop off into his grave with decline!—‘taint in the nature of a young man to do without sleep—and that’ll be the ending! And he’ll burn himself up first, and all the house with him.”
“I think I will go and speak to him,” debated Constance.
“I should,” advised Judith. “The worst is, if the books must be done, why, they must; and I don’t see that there is any help for it.”
But Constance hesitated, considerably. She did not at all like to interfere; it appeared so very much to resemble the work of a spy. Several minutes she deliberated, and then went slowly up the stairs. Knocking at Hamish’s door, she turned the handle, and would have entered. It was locked.
“Who’s there?” called out Hamish.
“Can I come in for a minute, Hamish? I want to say a word to you.”
He did not undo the door immediately. There appeared to be an opening and closing of his desk, first—a scuffle, as of things being put away. When Constance entered, she saw one of the insurance books open on the table, the pen and ink near it; the others were not to be seen. The keys were in the table lock. A conviction flashed over the mind of Constance that Judith was right, in supposing the office accounts to be the object that kept him up. “What can he do with his time in the day?” she thought.
“What is it, Constance?”
“Can you let me speak to you, Hamish?”
“If you won’t be long. I was just beginning to be busy,” he replied, taking out the keys and putting them into his pocket.