with you,” the big man grunted. “Might snare another impostor.”
“I should hardly think so,” Peter demurred, but of course it didn’t do any good.
The upshot was that Helen decided to stay home and work on her article because her editor was growing snappish. Miss Binks mentioned a trifle fretfully that she hoped they might get started soon because those lawyers had already been cooling their heels at the station for the past half hour. While she didn’t much care about Mr. Sopwith and his minion, she was solicitous for Mr. Debenham, who’d been kind to her even when she hadn’t had two cents to rub together.
Thorkjeld Svenson offered to drive, but Peter had fortitude enough left not to let him. “No, you don’t, President. My hair’s falling out fast enough already. Sit in back and rest your brain.”
By the time they got to the field station, Peter was beginning to understand how a long-distance bus driver must feel at the end of an imperfect day, even though this day was just hitting its stride. At least, as Miss Binks had prophesied, her visitors were still waiting. She entered the lobby briskly but without undue haste and didn’t strain herself on the apologies. She then turned to young Calthrop, who sat at the long table picking at an alien Tyrol knapweed with a pair of needle-pointed tweezers.
“Where has Viola gone?”
“She said she felt like a walk. She’s coming back to check the rain gauges and fill the bird feeders.”
“Good, they need it. Oh dear, that wretched red squirrel’s caught inside the big feeding station again. You’d better go find her and help her cope before he tears it apart trying to get out. Now, gentlemen, what is it you want to talk to me about? I mustn’t waste too much of your time.”
“Ah, could we go into your office?”
Mr. Sopwith, the speaker, had recently inherited from a retired senior officer managership of the immense estate which the late Jeremiah Binks had left in trust for his granddaughter. He looked to Peter like the sort of banker who ought to have a heavy gold watch chain strung across his paunch and his thumbs stuck into the armholes of his waistcoat. It was disappointing to find him in flannels and a sports jacket with a discreet but perceptible windowpane check. The garb, Peter supposed, had been selected to remind Miss Binks that Mr. Sopwith was giving up his Saturday in her interests. Debenham, on the other hand, wore a dark business suit much like the suits Peter himself generally wore on occasions when work pants and a flannel shirt wouldn’t be quite the thing.
Sopwith had brought along a small, slim, silent individual in unbecoming brown with a self-effacing tie. This was Mr. Tangent, accountant for the trust. Mr. Tangent was carrying a ledger, a couple of file folders, and one of those colored booklets with plastic pages in which presentations to important clients are apt to be arranged. Miss Binks’s was green, perhaps in deference to her ecological interests, or to celebrate the magnitude of her inheritance, or possibly even in tribute to her late grandfather. Or else, Peter mused, since he liked to examine all sides of a question, because green was the color of the one they happened to have kicking around the office.
Getting back to the subject of offices, Sopwith’s suggestion that they adjourn to Miss Binks’s was plainly an attempt to exclude Dr. Shandy and President Svenson from the discussion. Winifred was having none of that. She seated herself at the table near the big windows that was used for such things as examining architects’ plans, mounting specimens for the museum, drinking dandelion-root coffee, eating daylily-pollen muffins, and sundry other activities, and motioned for the men to join her.
“Let’s stay right here, why lug chairs around if we don’t have to? Dr. Svenson, you’d better sit beside me and lend a few extra fingers to count on. I’m hopeless at arithmetic. All right, Mr. Sopwith, what’s
“I should hardly think so,” Peter demurred, but of course it didn’t do any good.
The upshot was that Helen decided to stay home and work on her article because her editor was growing snappish. Miss Binks mentioned a trifle fretfully that she hoped they might get started soon because those lawyers had already been cooling their heels at the station for the past half hour. While she didn’t much care about Mr. Sopwith and his minion, she was solicitous for Mr. Debenham, who’d been kind to her even when she hadn’t had two cents to rub together.
Thorkjeld Svenson offered to drive, but Peter had fortitude enough left not to let him. “No, you don’t, President. My hair’s falling out fast enough already. Sit in back and rest your brain.”
By the time they got to the field station, Peter was beginning to understand how a long-distance bus driver must feel at the end of an imperfect day, even though this day was just hitting its stride. At least, as Miss Binks had prophesied, her visitors were still waiting. She entered the lobby briskly but without undue haste and didn’t strain herself on the apologies. She then turned to young Calthrop, who sat at the long table picking at an alien Tyrol knapweed with a pair of needle-pointed tweezers.
“Where has Viola gone?”
“She said she felt like a walk. She’s coming back to check the rain gauges and fill the bird feeders.”
“Good, they need it. Oh dear, that wretched red squirrel’s caught inside the big feeding station again. You’d better go find her and help her cope before he tears it apart trying to get out. Now, gentlemen, what is it you want to talk to me about? I mustn’t waste too much of your time.”
“Ah, could we go into your office?”
Mr. Sopwith, the speaker, had recently inherited from a retired senior officer managership of the immense estate which the late Jeremiah Binks had left in trust for his granddaughter. He looked to Peter like the sort of banker who ought to have a heavy gold watch chain strung across his paunch and his thumbs stuck into the armholes of his waistcoat. It was disappointing to find him in flannels and a sports jacket with a discreet but perceptible windowpane check. The garb, Peter supposed, had been selected to remind Miss Binks that Mr. Sopwith was giving up his Saturday in her interests. Debenham, on the other hand, wore a dark business suit much like the suits Peter himself generally wore on occasions when work pants and a flannel shirt wouldn’t be quite the thing.
Sopwith had brought along a small, slim, silent individual in unbecoming brown with a self-effacing tie. This was Mr. Tangent, accountant for the trust. Mr. Tangent was carrying a ledger, a couple of file folders, and one of those colored booklets with plastic pages in which presentations to important clients are apt to be arranged. Miss Binks’s was green, perhaps in deference to her ecological interests, or to celebrate the magnitude of her inheritance, or possibly even in tribute to her late grandfather. Or else, Peter mused, since he liked to examine all sides of a question, because green was the color of the one they happened to have kicking around the office.
Getting back to the subject of offices, Sopwith’s suggestion that they adjourn to Miss Binks’s was plainly an attempt to exclude Dr. Shandy and President Svenson from the discussion. Winifred was having none of that. She seated herself at the table near the big windows that was used for such things as examining architects’ plans, mounting specimens for the museum, drinking dandelion-root coffee, eating daylily-pollen muffins, and sundry other activities, and motioned for the men to join her.
“Let’s stay right here, why lug chairs around if we don’t have to? Dr. Svenson, you’d better sit beside me and lend a few extra fingers to count on. I’m hopeless at arithmetic. All right, Mr. Sopwith, what’s
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