"Nothing could suit me better," I exclaimed—so eagerly that the young man looked at me surprised. "To whom have I to apply?"
He consulted the letter again.
"Mr. Benson, solicitor, 19, Bedford Row, has authority to engage you. You had better go and see him, I should think."
I thanked him and hurried out. So nervous was I lest some one else should precede me and secure the better chance that I jumped into a stray hansom and was driven straight to Mr. Benson's office. There I was informed, to my great satisfaction, that Mr. Benson was in, and disengaged, and in a few minutes I was shown into his room.
He was sitting at his desk when I entered, a short, clean-shaven, grey-haired man, with a keen but not unkindly face. He motioned me to a seat, and kept his eyes fixed steadfastly upon me whilst I explained my mission.
When I had finished he took out a bunch of keys from his pocket, and carefully unlocked a small drawer in his desk. For a full minute he seemed to be examining something there, glancing up at me more than once. Then he took it and passed it across the table to me.
"Do you recognise that, Mr. Arbuthnot?" he asked, quietly.
Recognise it? How could I help it? It was a photograph—and the photograph of my father.
I leaned back in my chair, agitated and disappointed. Mr. Benson watched me for awhile in silence.
"I see that you are in mourning, Mr. Devereux," he said suddenly, noticing it for the first time. "Your father is well, I hope?"