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decorated “Chinese room.” Crompton’s fortune grew by leaps and bounds in the succeeding years, yet he remained a hands-on manager. Now in his middle fifties, tall and stocky with a bushy black beard sprinkled with gray, he exuded good-natured energy.
    â€œGood Dr. Cratchit,” he bellowed, pumping Tim’s hand. “Welcome to my home, sir. I wish I saw more of you, Doctor, but my good health won’t allow it!” He chuckled deep in his chest.
    Mrs. Crompton noticed a couple entering the drawing room and walked over to greet them. When she was too far away to overhear, her husband continued wryly: “Then again, you see enough of my wife. Perhaps more than enough, I daresay!”
    Tim smiled at the remark but said nothing, not wanting any part of such a dangerous conversation. Lord Glendormond, however, who had frequent business dealings with Crompton, had once observed to Tim that the reason the merchant spent so much time at work was because it kept him away from his wife. Tim shrewdly seized upon Crompton’s comment about his health to steer the conversation in that direction by asking to what he attributed his well-being.
    â€œIt’s the work that keeps me healthy, Doctor. Why, yesterday two of my warehouse men never showed for work, and there were a dozen wagons to be loaded. ‘What will you do?’ my manager asked me. Why, I stripped off my coat and cravat right there, rolled up my shirtsleeves, and went to work! He looked at me like I was daft. ‘Get to it,’ I said. ‘If I can load wagons, so can you!’ And he did, Doctor, though I daresay he hadn’t much fun. Good with figures he is, but a pip-squeak of a man!”
    Soon Crompton launched into a lengthy review of his business affairs. Tim listened, not particularly interested in commercial matters, but finding Crompton’s anecdotes highly amusing. He took some pastries from the various trays that the servers constantly thrust in front of him, and to his surprise, he realized he was actually enjoying himself. The conversation was a pleasant diversion from his constant focus on his own work. After twenty minutes, Crompton spied a newly arrived business associate and excused himself. Before the merchant vanished into the crowd, Tim carefully returned to the issue of health to inquire about Jane, whom he still had not seen.
    â€œYour daughter doesn’t seem to be as healthy as you, sir,” Tim observed. “She looked quite exhausted yesterday. Is she well today?”
    â€œHah, hah,” Crompton boomed. “Enough of the old man, now, where’s the daughter?” He winked. “Well, I was of the same mind at your age, Doctor. Unfortunately, my good business sense didn’t extend to matters of the heart! No, sir, or I’d have looked for a wife among the dainty flowers instead of on the bottom of the pickle barrel! Hah! Jane’s in her room, down the hall past the stairs, last door on the left. Not feeling well, but perhaps a doctor’s visit is just what she needs to fix her up, eh?” Crompton clapped Tim a hearty blow to the back that nearly propelled him into a nearby knot of conversing guests.
    Recovering his balance, Tim slipped out of the drawing room and into the hall. He had barely closed the door when he heard a loud cough behind him. It was the butler, frowning at him.
    â€œI am sorry to say that guests are not allowed in the family quarters,” he said.
    â€œYou may check with Mr. Crompton,” Tim replied, holding his temper in check. For a servant hired for one night’s work, the butler emanated arrogance from every pore. “He told me that I might check on his daughter, who is ill. I’m a doctor.”
    The butler hesitated, torn between allowing this flagrant breach of etiquette to pass or risking Archibald Crompton’s displeasure if Tim was telling the truth. He quickly settled on what he considered the safest course.