"From Whitehall Slip to Dock Street, Hanover Square, Queen Street, Crown Street, William Street, King George Street to the Boston Road, and so to the eastern gate of the barrier. I rather think the companions of the journey will be few in number ere they reach the barrier. They start about two o'clock I believe. You will not forget dinner at five?"
Then the young men parted and Neil went to his office to consider his movements. Events had happened with a celerity that made him nervous and uncertain. He was used to method and plenty of time. Hurry, under any circumstances, destroyed his balance. Between his father and mother, Agnes, Maria, John Bradley and his son, Jacob Cohen and Lord Medway, he felt as if in a whirlwind. He wanted an hour of solitude in which to collect himself. But his office, that usually quiet, methodical place, was this day full of unrest. His partner was fuming at Harry Bradley's release, and wondering "what on earth was the use of the law, or the necessity for lawyers to interpret it?"
"There is now no necessity for either law or lawyers," answered Neil; "we may pack our books and lock our door."
"Neil, I have been thinking how I could manage to get two hundred for you."
"It is not necessary. I am sorry I spoke to you on the subject."
"I hope you have reconsidered the question of resignation."
"I sent in my resignation this morning."
"Of course the commissioners will include me with you."
"Not necessarily."
"Yes, necessarily; and I think you have been very selfish and unkind."