He was still busy when the landlady's daughter brought in his tea. He looked up casually and caught her eye bent on his work with extreme interest. "Good evening, Miss Hughes," he said.
"Good evening, Mr Carstairs," she answered, and she had summoned up a defiant sort of air to meet his eye.
Carstairs' face was like the Sphinx. "I'm going up to London to-morrow. Would you mind letting me have breakfast at half-past six? I shall come back by the eleven twenty, but I've got a very important piece of work here I want to finish before I go, so please don't let me be disturbed for the rest of the evening."
"Certainly, Mr Carstairs. Half-past six, and I'll see no one disturbs you."
"Thanks very much." Carstairs regarding her steadily with his calm, inquiring eyes, caught a gleam in hers that she did not want to be seen; he gave no sign, and she went away quite oblivious of the fact that he had read her like an open book.
Next day he went off to London and saw his lawyer brother; they talked over his case against Darwen, and his brother very quickly decided that he had "no case." So Carstairs returned, and in the stillness of the wee sma' hours he examined the drawing again, and found, as he expected, four more pin-holes. He did not smile; when in company his mirth was seldom excessive, when alone, his features never for one second relaxed their attitude of calm seriousness. He replaced the drawing board in its position, leaning against the wall behind the piano, and went to bed.
The following Monday he called at the office for his month's pay. He waited at the little shutter that the men were paid at, while the office boy went to fetch a clerk who fetched another clerk, who consulted with the first clerk, and called a third clerk and sent the office boy for a book and a pen, then they all three consulted together again and reprimanded the office boy before handing the cheque through the little shutter. Which entire rigmarole was the outcome of insufficient work, and too sufficient pomposity. While Carstairs waited, Darwen opened the door of his office.
"Hullo, old chap, come inside. Here, Morris, bring that cheque along with you." He held out his hand.
Carstairs ignored it. "Thanks, I won't stay, I'm just going off to Chilcombe."
Darwen laughed. "A Saxon," he said, "is an individual who proceeds along 'strait' lines. I was going to ask you to come home with me this evening. The mater would like to see you."