It—that is, the case of Crewdson v. The Great Southern Railway Company—was about a dog, consigned according to the plaintiff's—which was Arthur's—contention (the real movements of the animal were wrapped in doubt from the outset) by a certain Startin—who was at that date butler to the plaintiff, but under notice to leave, and who did a few days later vanish into space—to his mistress, Miss Crewdson, an elderly lady of considerable means and of indomitable temper—from Tenterden in Sussex to its owner at Harrogate, where she was taking the waters. Though a very small dog, it was a very precious one, both from a sentimental and from a pecuniary point of view. So it ought to have been, considering the questions of law and fact which it raised! For in reply to Miss Crewdson's simple, but determined and reiterated, demand for her dog or her damages, the Company made answer, first, that they had never received the dog at Tenterden, secondly that they had duly delivered the dog at Harrogate, and lastly—but it was a "lastly" pregnant with endless argument—that they had done all they were bound to do in regard to the dog, whatever had in truth happened or not happened to the animal. What actually had, nobody ever knew for certain. A dog—some dog—got to Harrogate in the end. The Company said this was Miss Crewdson's dog, if they had ever carried a dog of hers at all; Miss Crewdson indignantly repudiated it. And there, in the end, the question of fact rested—for ever unsolved. The House of Lords—though the Lord Chancellor, basing himself on a comparison of photographs, did indulge in an obiter dictum that the Harrogate dog, if it were not the Tenterden dog, was as like as two peas to it ("Of course it was—both Pekinese! But it wasn't our dog," Arthur muttered indignantly)—found it unnecessary to decide this question, in view of the fact that, Startin having disappeared into space, there was no sufficient evidence to justify a jury in finding that the Company had ever received any dog of Miss Crewdson's. It was this little point of the eternally doubtful identity of the Harrogate dog which proved such a godsend to the wits of the Press; they suggested that the Highest Tribunal in the Land might have taken its courage in both hands and given, at all events for what it was worth, its opinion about the Harrogate dog. Was he Hsien-Feng, or wasn't he? But no. The House of Lords said it was unnecessary to decide that. It was certainly extremely difficult, and had given two juries an immensity of trouble.
All these remarkable developments, all these delightful ramifications, now lay within the ambit of the red tape which Arthur, left alone, feverishly untied. He had to be at it; he could not wait. Not only was there the conference at four-fifteen, but he was all of an itch to know what he was in for and what he might hope for, divided between a craven fear of difficulty above his powers and a soaring hope of opportunity beyond his dreams.
After three hours' absorbed work he was still on the mere fringe of the case, still in the early stages of that voluminous correspondence, when Miss Crewdson was tolerably, and the Company obsequiously, polite—and no dog at all was forthcoming, to correspond to the dog alleged to have been consigned from Tenterden. A dog was being hunted for all over two railway systems; likely dogs had been sighted at Guildford, at Peterborough, and at York. The letters stiffened with the arrival of the Harrogate dog—ten days after the proper date for the arrival of the dog from Tenterden. "Not my dog," wrote Miss Crewdson positively, and added an intimation that future correspondence should be addressed to her solicitors. Messrs. Wills and Mayne took up the pen; in their hands and in those of the Company's solicitors the letters assumed a courteous but irrevocably hostile tone. Meanwhile the unfortunate Harrogate dog was boarded out at a veterinary surgeon's—his charges to abide the result of the action; that doubt as to his identity would survive even the result of the action was not then foreseen.
Arthur broke off for lunch with a tremendous sense of interest, of zest, and of luck—above all, of luck. He had not been called two years yet; he had no influential backing; such a little while ago work had seemed so remote, in hours of depression, indeed, so utterly out of the question. Then the tiny glimmer of Mr. Tiddes, now the glowing rays of Crewdson v. The Great Southern Railway Company! It was not the moment, even if he had been the man, for a measured sobriety of anticipation; it was one of those rare and rich hours of youth when everything seems possible and no man's lot is to be envied.
And he owed it to Wills and Mayne—unaccountably and mysteriously still! The picture of old Mr. Mayne, with his winking eye, rose before his mind. A strange incarnation of Fortune! A very whimsical shape for a man's Chance to present itself in! He gave up the mystery of how Mr. Mayne had ever heard of him originally, but he hugged to his heart the thought that he must have conducted the Tiddes case with unexampled brilliancy. Only thus could he account for Mr. Mayne's persistent loyalty.
So, after lunch, back to the dog—the Harrogate dog, that Tichborne Claimant of a Pekinese dog!
Four o'clock struck. With a sudden return of fear, with a desperate resolve to seem calm and not over-eager, Arthur prepared to face Mr. Mayne. He wished to look as if cases like Crewdson v. The Great Southern Railway Company were an everyday occurrence.
Punctually at four-fifteen, a knock at the outer door—and footsteps! Henry threw open the door of his room. "Mr. Thomas Mayne to see you, sir." Henry's manner was very important.
"Oh, show him in, please," said Arthur. It struck him, with a sudden pang, that the bareness of his table was glaringly horrible. Not even, as it chanced, any of Norton Ward's briefs which, turned face-downwards, might have dressed it to some degree of decency!
"This way, sir, please," said Henry, with his head over his shoulder.