Francis continued his walk along the Embankment to his chambers in the Temple. He glanced in the outer office as he passed to his consulting room.
“Anything fresh, Angrave?” he asked his head-clerk.
“Nothing whatever, sir,” was the quiet reply.
He passed on to his own den—a bare room with long windows looking out over the gardens. He glanced at the two or three letters which lay on his desk, none of them of the least interest, and leaning back in his chair commenced to fill his pipe. There was a knock at the door. Fawsitt, a young beginner at the bar, in whom he had taken some interest and who deviled for him, presented himself.
“Can I have a word with you, Mr. Ledsam?” he asked.
“By all means,” was the prompt response. “Sit down.”
Fawsitt seated himself on the other side of the table. He had a long, thin face, dark, narrow eyes, unwholesome complexion, a slightly hooked nose, and teeth discoloured through constant smoking. His fingers, too, bore the tell-tale yellow stains.
“Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “I think, with your permission, I should like to leave at the end of my next three months.”
Francis glanced across at him.
“Sorry to hear that, Fawsitt. Are you going to work for any one else?”