It was a bare enough place. It was no more than sufficient for the simplest human needs. But then no more was asked of it. Police life was never made easy.
The room was narrow and low-ceiled, and its walls were boarded. At one time in their career they had been varnished, but that was long ago. Now they were dingy with the smoke of many winters. A bed-cot of trestles and boards, with a straw palliasse and brown blankets on it, was the man’s sleeping place. A well-polished wood stove abated some of the winter cold. The only thing that could have been considered luxury was a washbowl on a makeshift table with a water bucket standing beside it. As for the writing table at which Sinclair was seated, it was small, of white wood, and served its purpose with nothing to spare.
There was no floor covering of any sort. There was not even a curtain over the double windows to afford privacy. A couple of old grain sacks were jambed at the foot of the door, but these were only for the purpose of shutting out some of the penetrating bitterness of the winter cold. The Spartan severity was extended even to the illumination. The single oil lamp was just sufficient to stir up shadows even in those narrow limits.
Sinclair was indifferent to bodily discomfort and found no fault with his quarters. But he hated the office work which he performed with meticulous thoroughness. That was his way. He was looking for promotion and knew how much that branch of his work counted with those in whose hands his official future lay. So he had spent a long and dreary evening completing his weekly report of ten foolscap pages. And after that he had written two private letters.
There was not much choice for him with the snow falling heavily outside. It was either work or his blankets. And as yet he was in no mood for sleep. So he had written a dutiful epistle to an aged mother in Toronto and a letter of several pages to a girl who occupied the position of governess to two very young children in the household of one of Calford’s leading citizens.
It was all very characteristic of Ernest Sinclair. He was sure of his own efficiency; quite certain of it. And furthermore he took good care never to leave undone any of those things which might serve his ambitions.
It was his way to spend a lot of spare time in calculation. No interest of his own was too small that it should not be fully weighed and measured. It was his aim in life that his sums should always prove. And if things did not always work out as his figures indicated it was not for lack of strenuous effort. When things went wrong with them he usually assured himself of the inevitability of the failure. Never, in his frankest moments did he admit the unfailing discount demanded by his own besetting weaknesses.
He rose alertly from his desk and crossed the room to the stove in the corner. Habit set him raking it. Then he generously replenished it from his store of cord-wood. Automatically he closed the damper and stood up, wiping the wood ash dust from his hands.
He felt almost elated. He was wondering and speculating as to the outcome of his morning’s interview with Annette. He felt that things should certainly come his way. He assured himself he was entitled to such a result. It had been hard work. It had made him sweat in spite of the cold. The inspiration that had leaped to his mind in the nick of time was something which tickled his vanity mightily.
But as he began to fill his pipe he found himself resorting again to his habit of calculation.