He scrutinised me attentively by the light of the entry lamp, and then remarked: "Fetter Lane doesn't seem to be agreeing with you very well, my son. You are looking quite thin and peaky."
"Well, I've nearly done with it. Barnard will be back in about ten days. His ship is putting in at Madeira to coal and take in some cargo, and then he is coming home. Where are you going with those chairs?"
"I am going to sit down at the end of the Walk by the garden railings. It's cooler there than indoors. If you will wait a moment I will fetch another chair for Jervis, though he won't be back for a little while." He ran up the stairs, and presently returned with a third chair, and we carried our impedimenta down to the quiet corner at the bottom of the Walk.
"So your term of servitude is coming to an end," said he when we had placed the chairs and hung the lantern on the railings. "Any other news?"
"No. Have you any?"
"I am afraid I have not. All my inquiries have yielded negative results. There is, of course, a considerable body of evidence, and it all seems to point one way. But I am unwilling to make a decisive move without something more definite. I am really waiting for confirmation or otherwise of my ideas on the subject; for some new item of evidence."
"I didn't know there was any evidence."
"Didn't you?" said Thorndyke. "But you know as much as I know. You have all the essential facts; but apparently you haven't collated them and extracted their meaning. If you had, you would have found them curiously significant."
"I suppose I mustn't ask what their significance is?"
"No, I think not. When I am conducting a case I mention my surmises to nobody--not even to Jervis. Then I can say confidently that there has been no leakage. Don't think I distrust you. Remember that my thoughts are my client's property, and that the essence of strategy is to keep the enemy in the dark."
"Yes, I see that. Of course, I ought not to have asked."
"You ought not to need to ask," Thorndyke replied, with a smile; "you should put the facts together and reason from them yourself."
While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke glance at me inquisitively from time to time. Now, after an interval of silence, he asked suddenly: "Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying about your friends' affairs?"
"No, not particularly; though their prospects don't look very rosy."
"Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look," said he. "But I am afraid something is troubling you. All your gay spirits seem to have evaporated." He paused for a few moments, and then added: "I don't want to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you by advice or otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you are my academic offspring."