“Begging yours—but I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance,” replied Eustace, eyeing the speaker with perfect coolness. “Is this your legal adviser, Johnston?”
“Eh, no, sir. It’s just my cousin, who knows the law as well as most lawyers, and—”
“Well, it can’t possibly be his business, and I shall decline to discuss it with him,” decisively went on Eustace, who had a dim recollection of having seen the seedy, ferret-nosed individual before him in the office of a Battisford attorney, where he occupied a position, half clerk, half errand-runner. “And for the matter of that, Johnston, it’s none of mine either, and I may as well tell you so. So I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.”
“And ye won’t give me his address?”
“Whose?”
“Meester Dorrien’s.”
“No.”
“But perhaps we can mak’ ye,” answered Johnston, whose tone was gradually becoming less respectful and more threatening.
Eustace turned slightly in his chair—his tall, fine frame the picture of listless ease, and cool self-possession in every feature of his handsome face.
“Eh? I didn’t quite catch?” he said suavely, merely lifting an eye-brow.