XII
“I’m in search of a good lawyer,” said Westbrook to John Barrington one day. “Can you recommend one to me?”
“Indeed I can. I have in mind the very man—he’s been doing a little work for me, and he is very highly spoken of.”
“That sounds about O. K. Who is he?”
“That’s just the point,” laughed the older man; “the name’s escaped me. He’s from the East—hasn’t been here very long. I’ll tell you what—I’ll bring him into your office tomorrow. Will that do?”
“It will—and thank you.”
Westbrook’s “office” was something new. A life of leisure was becoming wearisome; consequently he invested in various bits of real estate, opened an office, put a man in charge, and of late had himself tended strictly to business, such time as he could spare from his social engagements.
It was into this office that Mr. Barrington came one morning accompanied by a short, smooth-faced man whose garments were irreproachable in style and cut.
“Ah, Westbrook,” began Barrington, “let me introduce Mr. Martin, of Martin & Gray, the lawyer of whom I was telling you yesterday.”
Again the room and all it contained—save the figure of Martin himself—faded from Westbrook’s sight, and he saw the New England street with the lawyer’s sign in the foreground. The next moment the vision was gone, and he had extended a cordial hand.
“I’m very glad to meet Mr. Martin,” he said, looking the lawyer straight in the eye.
“Mr. Westbrook—delighted, I’m sure,” murmured the little man suavely; then, in a puzzled tone, “have I had the honor of meeting you before, Mr. Westbrook? There is something familiar about you.”
“Is there?” began Westbrook, but John Barrington interrupted.
“There, Martin, you’ve hit my case exactly! He’s puzzled me a thousand times with a little turn or twist that’s like someone I’ve seen. Dash it—who is it?”
“My features must be cast in a common mold,” laughed Westbrook, “to remind so many of one they know.”
“Um—ah—well—I shouldn’t want to say quite that!” retorted Barrington. “Well, gentlemen,” he resumed after a pause, “I’ll leave you to your own devices. I’m off—good morning.”
“Good morning, and thank you,” replied Westbrook, rising. “I’ve no doubt Mr. Martin will prove a credit to your introduction,” he concluded as he bowed the elder gentleman out. Then he turned to the lawyer and began the business at hand.
In his own room that night Westbrook carried a small mirror close to the light and scrutinized himself for some minutes.
“H’m,” he mused, “hair rather gray for a man not yet thirty; still—it looks less like that of a youth of twenty.”
He stroked his carefully trimmed beard meditatively.
“Hides the telltale mouth and chin pretty well,” he murmured. “Mr. Joseph Westbrook can stay where he is for the present, I think.”
The next evening Westbrook called at the Barringtons’. He found Ethel and Mr. Martin at the piano singing a duet which they continued at his solicitation. Then the two musicians drifted into a discussion of Martin’s favorite composer, which was like a foreign language to Westbrook.
After a half-hour of this the lawyer took his leave. Westbrook drew a long breath, but it was caught and stifled in half completion by Miss Barrington’s first remark.
“What a fine voice he has!”
“Er—yes, very.”
“And his knowledge of musical matters is most unusual, too.”
“That so?”
“Yes. He says he wanted to make music his profession, but his parents objected; so he took up law.”
“Indeed,” murmured Westbrook without enthusiasm.
“Yes, but he talks of musicians as glibly as though he had read Grove as much as Blackstone. I haven’t had so good a time discussing my pet composers for many a day.”
Westbrook stirred restlessly, and his hostess suddenly became aware of the hopelessly lost look in his eyes. She promptly changed the subject.
It was the very next day that Mr. Joseph Westbrook appeared in the leading book-store of the city.
“I want some lives of musicians,” he announced.
“I beg pardon?”
“Books, I mean—lives of musicians.”
“Oh, certainly, of course,” apologized the clerk. “Which ones?”
“Why—er—the best ones, to be sure.” Westbrook’s voice faltered at first, but it vibrated with the courage of his convictions at the last.
The clerk suddenly turned his back, and when Westbrook next saw his face it was an apoplectic shade of reddish purple.
“Certainly, sir. Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn, Mozart, Chopin——”
“Yes, yes, put me up one of each,” interrupted Westbrook hastily; he was growing suspicious of the clerk. He left the store with more dignity than he usually displayed.
The real estate business would have suffered in the next few days had it depended entirely upon Westbrook, for the greater share of his time was spent in poring over the recent addition to his library. At the end of a month he was sadly entangled in a bewildering maze of fugues, sonatas, concertos and symphonies, in which the names of Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Handel, Mendelssohn, Mozart and Chopin were hopelessly lost.