‘Ay, ay! safe and sound, Walter.—Good-night.’
But the young man lingered with his eyes curiously fixed on Silas. ‘The evenings are getting short,’ continued he. ‘Can you see to work by this light?’
‘Why, no—not well,’ Silas owned, with his eyes raised towards the window; ‘and what makes it still more difficult is that scaffolding the workmen have put up outside—that’s what makes it so dark. Ay, ay!’ he added, ‘they’re repairing the old walls. Dear me, dear me!’
The old walls outside, which surrounded a courtyard, were black with dust and age, and they had also in many parts a tumble-down aspect, which appeared to plainly indicate that repairs were needed badly. Upon the scaffolding, some half-dozen labourers were gathering together their tools and preparing to go home, as the clerks had done already. Silas was lighting an oil-lamp. ‘Give me a hand, Walter,’ said he, ‘to close these shutters and put up the iron bar.’
‘All right, Mr Monk,’ said the young man, unfolding the old-fashioned shutters in the walls and clasping the iron bar across them with a loud clink. ‘All right and tight!—Shall you remain long at the office?’ he added, moving towards the door.
‘Not long; half an hour, perhaps—not more.’
Still the young man lingered. ‘Mr Monk,’ said he, walking a step back into the strong-room, ‘I saw your grand-daughter Miss Rachel this morning.’
Silas, who had reseated himself at his desk before the large ledgers, looked round keenly at Walter, with the light from the shaded lamp thrown upon his wrinkled face. ‘You see my grand-daughter Rachel pretty often; don’t you, Walter?’
‘Pretty often, Mr Monk, I confess.’
Silas shook his long thin forefinger at the young man. ‘Walter,’ cried he, ‘that’s not business!’