Even if he went to London at midsummer, what would that
mean except that he was a fool? And he had been a fool before. That was
not the reality of his life. Yet he knew that he would go to London.
Half an hour later the train stopped at Moorlock. Alexander sprang to
the platform and hurried up the siding, waving to Philip Horton, one
of his assistants, who was anxiously looking up at the windows of the
coaches. Bartley took his arm and they went together into the station
buffet.
"I'll have my coffee first, Philip. Have you had yours? And now, what
seems to be the matter up here?"
The young man, in a hurried, nervous way, began his explanation.
But Alexander cut him short. "When did you stop work?" he asked sharply.
The young engineer looked confused. "I haven't stopped work yet,
Mr. Alexander. I didn't feel that I could go so far without definite
authorization from you."
"Then why didn't you say in your telegram exactly what you thought, and
ask for your authorization? You'd have got it quick enough."
"Well, really, Mr. Alexander, I couldn't be absolutely sure, you know,
and I didn't like to take the responsibility of making it public."
Alexander pushed back his chair and rose. "Anything I do can be made
public, Phil. You say that you believe the lower chords are showing
strain, and that even the workmen have been talking about it, and yet
you've gone on adding weight."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Alexander, but I had counted on your getting here
yesterday.
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