“Con—Tut, tut, tut. Oh, hang it, Swift, this is too bad.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the solicitor.
“But, look here, honour bright?”
“Honour bright, my dear sir. Go and ask him.”
“I’ll take your word, Swift. Give me a pinch of snuff. What, have you endorsed the brief, eh?”
The solicitor whispered.
“Have you, though? Well, I should have done the same. It will be silk one of these days.”
“Safe, sir, safe,” said the other; and they went out together, just as a cab stopped at the end of the narrow lane, and, looking very thin and old, and dry, but bright and active still, old Michael Ross stepped out; and then, with a very shabby, long old carpet bag in one hand, and a baggy green umbrella, with staghorn handle, in the other, trotted down the incline into the Temple till he reached the staircase, at the foot of which, on one of the door-posts, was painted a column of names.
“Hah!” said the old man, smiling, as he set down his bag, and balanced a clumsy pair of glasses on his nose, holding them up with one hand. “This is it. Number nine. Ground floor, Mr Sergeant Towle; Mr Barnard, Q.C. First floor, Mr Ross.”
“Hah!” he muttered, with a chuckle, “first floor, Mr Ross. I wonder whether he’s at home.