Having resolved therefore with open eyes upon doing a rash and hazardous thing, he gave a touch of heroism to his folly by setting about it as promptly and thoroughly as if it had been a wise one. As soon as parade was over he started for Lincoln’s Inn, determined to find out what he could from the lawyers concerning Nouna’s relations, and to write at once to her mother for the consent which he guessed would be readily accorded.
Messrs. Smith and Angelo, solicitors, had old-fashioned offices on a first floor, and there was a reassuring air of steady-going respectability about their whole surroundings, from the grim bare orderliness of their outer office to the cut of the coat of the middle-aged head clerk who courteously asked Lauriston which of the partners he wished to see. On learning that the visitor had no choice, the head clerk’s opinion of him seemed to go down a little, and he said, with the air of a man who is not going to cast his pearls before swine—
“Then perhaps you had better see Mr. Smith.”
The visitor’s name having been taken in to Mr. Smith, Lauriston heard it repeated in a happy, caressing voice, as if the announcement had been that of an old friend; and the next moment he was bowed into the presence of a tall, genial, jolly-looking man of about five-and-thirty, with black eyes, curly black hair, and a beautiful smile, who rose, came forward a step, shook his hand, and pressed him to take a chair with a warmth and good-humour which seemed to cast quite a radiance over the tiers of deed-boxes that lined the walls, with their victims’ names inscribed on them in neat white letters.
“Well, I suppose it is nothing very serious that you want us to do for you,” said the lawyer, glancing from the card to his visitor’s handsome face, and mentally deciding that there was a woman in it.
“It is very serious,” said Lauriston. “It is about a lady.”
The lawyer’s smile became broader than ever, and his attitude a shade more confidential.
“Her name,” continued Lauriston, “is Nouna Weston.”
Mr. Smith’s manner instantly changed; he drew himself up in his chair, and touched a hand-bell.
“I think, Mr. Lauriston,” he said, with the smile very much reduced, “that you had better see Mr. Angelo.” He told the boy who entered at this point to request Mr. Angelo to spare him a few minutes, and turned again to his visitor. “You see,” he said, “Miss Weston’s mother, the Countess di Valdestillas, is one of our oldest clients, so that to any business connected with her we like to give the entire collective wisdom of the firm.”