his time to the minute, as a rule, he does."

"You can't keep your time to a minute in a 'London Particular,'" I said
a little impatiently, for I wished to be alone that I might think over
matters, and Polton's nervous flutterings irritated me somewhat. He was
almost as bad as a female housekeeper.

The little man evidently perceived my state of mind, for he stole away
silently, leaving me rather penitent and ashamed, and, as I presently
discovered on looking out of the window, resumed his vigil on the
doorstep. From this coign of vantage he returned after a time to take
away the tea-things; and thereafter, though it was now dark as well as
foggy, I could hear him softly flitting up and down the stairs with a
gloomy stealthiness that at length reduced me to a condition as
nervously apprehensive as his own.




CHAPTER VIII

A SUSPICIOUS ACCIDENT


The Temple clock had announced in soft and confidential tones that it
was a quarter to seven, in which statement it was stoutly supported by
its colleague on our mantelpiece, and still there was no sign of
Thorndyke. It was really a little strange, for he was the soul of
punctuality, and moreover, his engagements were of such a kind as
rendered punctuality possible. I was burning with impatience to impart