It was in a somewhat sobered frame of mind that we presently turned away and started homeward by way of Great Ormond Street. My companion was deeply thoughtful, relapsing for a while into that sombreness of manner that had so impressed me when I first met her. Nor was I without a certain sympathetic pensiveness; as if, from the great, silent house, the spirit of the vanished man had issued forth to bear us company.
But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry when at last we arrived at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and Miss Bellingham halted and held out her hand.
"Good-bye," she said; "and many, many thanks for your invaluable help. Shall I take the bag?"
"If you want it. But I must take out the note-books."
"Why must you take them?" she asked.
"Why, haven't I got to copy the notes out into longhand?"
An expression of utter consternation spread over her face; in fact, she was so completely taken aback that she forgot to release my hand.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "How idiotic of me! But it is impossible, Doctor Berkeley! It will take you hours!"
"It is perfectly possible, and it is going to be done; otherwise the notes would be useless. Do you want the bag?"
"No, of course not. But I am positively appalled. Hadn't you better give up the idea?"
"And is this the end of our collaboration?" I exclaimed tragically, giving her hand a final squeeze (whereby she became suddenly aware of its position, and withdrew it rather hastily). "Would you throw away a whole afternoon's work? I won't, certainly; so, good-bye until to-morrow. I shall turn up in the reading-room as early as I can. You had better take the tickets. Oh, and you won't forget about the copy of the will for Doctor Thorndyke, will you?"
"No; if my father agrees, you shall have it this evening."
She took the tickets from me, and, thanking me yet again, retired into the court.