Calen left the lodging office at the third bell, with the order slip in his coat and Hoff at his shoulder. He stopped in the doorway. He did not look at the folder.
He looked at Nell.
“Stay on the stool,” he said. “Count.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He nodded once and went down the step into the yard. Nell watched him cross the stones toward the gate. He walked the way he always walked, without hurry, with his bad hand held close to his coat.
He did not look back, and she had not expected him to.
The sealed folder was on the table when she had come in, and it was still the only thing on the table.
The room smelled of dust, old paper and lamp oil that had been spilled on the shelf and never wiped. It was small. It had one window, high on the wall, with a shutter that someone had nailed half closed.
