"Perhaps not. It doesn't matter anyway." He shook hands and left. He went down to the works and sat in the little watch office chatting with the shift engineer for half an hour, then he strolled round and looked at engines and boilers and had a few words with stokers and engine-drivers. Sunday in an electricity generating station is a particularly doleful time; when half the place is dark and three quarters of the plant idle, and the staff, a mere ghost of its normal week-day number; when men with unusually clean hands and faces and a general semi-Sunday appearance flit silent and spectre-like across the dreary, empty engine-room, and silent, idle machines cast uncanny shadows in the unlighted parts of the building. It was rather pleasant to Carstairs, as he wandered round, to contemplate the bad old days when he himself used to be tied by the leg as it were, to this place for eight hours at a time. He was just going out when he almost ran into Mr Donovan and another councillor, resplendent in frock coats, white waistcoats and silk hats.
"Ah, Mr Carstairs, is Mr Darwen about?"
"No, he's gone away for a week-end."
"Is he now! That's disappointing, we'll just have a look round anyway. Ye might come with us and explain, Mr Carstairs."
"Er—yes. Certainly."
Mr Donovan became enthusiastic. "He's a clever chap is Mr Darwen, a wonderful clever chap. Look at this, Mr Jenkins" (as Carstairs switched on the arc light in the new part). "An' all out of his own head. Ah! he's a clever chap. We mustn't lose him, Mr Jenkins."
"No, indeed, Mr Donovan."
"Ah! an' is that the place where the poor fellow was killed?"
"Well! Well! Indeed now, Mr Donovan, the Lord takes us all in His own good time."
"True for ye. An' Mr Darwen tried to save him, so he did. Look at this, Mr Jenkins! engine beds, see! one, two, three. Three new engines, is it, Mr Carstairs?"