‘Mr. Tressamer is inside, sir. Will you walk in?’
Thus said the clerk at Mr. Tressamer’s chambers as soon as he saw Mr. Prescott. Then, stepping to the door, he rapped and opened it, saying the visitor’s name.
‘Well, Tressamer, where have you been this age?’
The speaker stopped, startled at the sight that presented itself, for there, lying on his face on the hearthrug, with his hands clutching at his thick black curls, lay George Tressamer, the very picture of one in mortal despair.
He sprang to his feet as his friend entered, and made an awkward attempt to behave as if he had not been seen.
‘Why, Prescott, where do you come from, pray? More excursions to the County Court, with the solicitors on opposite sides racing to you to see which can get his brief into your hands first?’
Prescott thought it best to take the hint, and not remark on his friend’s trouble. He quietly answered:
‘No; I’ve not been anywhere. Been in town, preparing for the assizes. By-the-bye——’ He paused to look for a chair, and was surprised to find every one in the room littered with books. He proceeded to clear the nearest to him, lifting the books on to the floor. ‘I’ve just had a brief to prosecute—Hullo! “Hawkins’ Pleas of the Crown”! I had no idea you were such a student—in that Porthstone case—the murder——’
Again he stopped short. A look of anguish had come into his friend’s face.