His uplifted face, with the awed and wistful look which faces take on themselves in church, was whitened to a chalky hue in the vast building.  His gloved hands were clasped in front over the handle of his umbrella.  He lifted them.  Some sacred inspiration perhaps had come to him.

‘Yes,’ he thought, ’I must have room to hang my pictures.

That evening, on his return from the City, he called at Bosinney’s office.  He found the architect in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe, and ruling off lines on a plan.  Soames refused a drink, and came at once to the point.

“If you’ve nothing better to do on Sunday, come down with me to Robin Hill, and give me your opinion on a building site.”

“Are you going to build?”

“Perhaps,” said Soames; “but don’t speak of it.  I just want your opinion.”

“Quite so,” said the architect.

Soames peered about the room.

“You’re rather high up here,” he remarked.

Any information he could gather about the nature and scope of Bosinney’s business would be all to the good.

“It does well enough for me so far,” answered the architect.  “You’re accustomed to the swells.”

He knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation.  Soames noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction.

“What do you pay for an office like this?” said he.

“Fifty too much,” replied Bosinney.

This answer impressed Soames favourably.

“I suppose it is dear,” he said.  “I’ll call for you—­on Sunday about eleven.”

The following Sunday therefore he called for Bosinney in a hansom, and drove him to the station.  On arriving at Robin Hill, they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the site.

It was the 1st of August—­a perfect day, with a burning sun and cloudless sky—­and in the straight, narrow road leading up the hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust.

“Gravel soil,” remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the coat Bosinney wore.  Into the side-pockets of this coat were thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer-looking stick.  Soames noted these and other peculiarities.

No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have taken such liberties with his appearance; and though these eccentricities were revolting to Soames, he derived a certain satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must inevitably profit.  If the fellow could build houses, what did his clothes matter?

“I told you,” he said, “that I want this house to be a surprise, so don’t say anything about it.  I never talk of my affairs until they’re carried through.”

Bosinney nodded.

“Let women into your plans,” pursued Soames, “and you never know where it’ll end.”

“Ah!” Said Bosinney, “women are the devil!”