"Oh, but the officers do more than that. I've seen them."
"So do we sometimes; in fact, in some of the cheap and nasty stations, where the chief is an ex-ironmonger, and the councillors are labourers out of a job, we have to do quite a lot with our hands, and so, of course, do less with our heads."
"Why! the chief here is an ex-ironmonger, isn't he?" Carstairs raised his eyebrows. "Not exactly an ironmonger, was he?"
The vicar's wife intervened. "Do you think he is really competent? There has been a lot of dissatisfaction in the town, you know."
"Well, we caught a burglar for you the other night," Carstairs evaded the question.
"Yes, I'm so glad! Oh! I hope you and Mr Darwen will come to our little dances; we hold a series every winter, you know. They're rather nice. Mrs Mellor is the moving spirit and men are so scarce. They start soon now."
"Thanks very much, I shall be very pleased to, and I know Darwen will."
Talking thus, Carstairs accompanied them till their ways divided, then he proceeded thoughtfully by himself to his diggings. He sat down in the big easy chair. Darwen's book-shelf was at his elbow; he glanced idly along the names on the backs. "Curious taste for an engineer to read poetry," he mused. His eye rested on "The Prince" by Machiavelli. "Darwen's favourite," he thought. He took it down and glanced through it. It was a dainty, leather-covered volume with gilt edges. Three hours later when Darwen returned, he found Carstairs deeply immersed in the last chapter of his favourite book.
He looked at him curiously. "Hullo! Got 'The Prince,' have you? How do you like it?"
"Well, I want to think about it. He seems to point out that you mustn't do things by halves. By the way, I went to church this morning."