He handed her back her papers for the second time. Mrs. Westerfield’s experience of poverty had never been the experience of such independence as this. In sheer bewilderment, she yielded again. He took back the original cipher, and locked it up in his desk. “Call here this day week,” he said—and returned to his book.
“You are not very polite,” she told him, on leaving the room.
“At any rate,” he answered, “I don’t interrupt people when they are reading.”
The week passed.
Repeating her visit, Mrs. Westerfield found him still seated at his desk, still surrounded by his books, still careless of the polite attentions that he owed to a lady.
“Well?” she asked, “have you earned your money?”
“I have found the clew.”
“What is it?” she burst out. “Tell me the substance. I can’t wait to read.”
He went on impenetrably with what he had to say. “But there are some minor combinations, which I have still to discover to my own satisfaction. I want a few days more.”
She positively refused to comply with this request. “Write down the substance of it,” she repeated, “and tell me what I owe you.”