“There has been no chance in my coming here,” said I, and my heart thanked God.
“You’re right about those drawings, young man,” Padiham said, and his voice seemed to find a sweeter tone even than before. “They do me good, and put a finer edge on my work. They’re good work, and by a good hand.”
“Whose?”
The dwarf turned about and surveyed me strictly. Then he started his lathe again, tore off a narrow ringlet of steel from a bit he was shaping, and flung another stream of steely perfume into the air.
“Whose hand?” I asked again.
“Do you ask because you want to know, or only to make idle talk?”
“I want to know.”
“What for?”
“I think the drawings are good. I should like a pair by the same hand. Can you direct me to the artist?”
“No.”