“Good morning, Mr Ross,” he said, as the reader rose and showed the face of Luke Ross, twelve years older, and pale and thin, but with his dark eyes, rather deeply set, now full of vigorous intelligence, as he seemed to look his visitor through and through, and motioned him to a seat with a wave of a thin, delicate white hand, upon which shone a heavy unornamented signet ring.
“I think you know our name, Mr Ross,” said the visitor, with an air of self-satisfaction, as he laid his blue bag across his knees.
“Perfectly well, Mr Swift,” said Ross, quietly. “I was against you in that shipping case last week.”
“Yes, sir, you were,” said the visitor, with a smile that looked like a snarl; “and you beat us, sir—beat Philliman—and that’s why I have come.”
“Mr Philliman worked very hard for your client, Mr Swift,” said Luke, quietly. “I presume that you bear no malice?” he added, with a smile.
“Malice, sir—malice, Mr Ross? Ha, ha, ha! That’s very good, sir—uncommonly good. I’ll tell Cripple as soon as I return.”
“I know you’ll excuse me, Mr Swift,” said the young barrister, glancing at his watch, “if I tell you that my time is very much occupied.”
“Of course! To be sure. Yes, my dear sir,” said the visitor, busily opening his blue bag. “I know it is. But as it was our first affair with you, I thought I would come on myself instead of sending our clerk. There, sir,” he exclaimed, drawing out a folded packet of papers, tied up with tape, “I have come to show you how we bear malice, sir—our first brief.”
As he spoke he handed the papers to Luke Ross with the triumphant smile of one who is conferring a great favour, and then, throwing himself back in his chair, he looked quite disappointed as the barrister just glanced at the endorsement on the brief, which, among other words, bore certain hieroglyphics in a crabbed hand—“15 gs.”
“I am sorry to have troubled you to come, Mr Swift,” said Luke, in a quiet, grave voice, that was very impressive, and, though low, seemed to fill the room, “but I really must decline.”