“You have grown younger, my Lord, and more yourself, and you speak different—sharper, so to say.”
These words were Balm of Gilead to Jones. He had received no opinion of himself from others till now; he had vaguely mistrusted his voice, unable to estimate in how much it differed from Rochester’s. The perfectly frank declaration of Church put his mind at rest. He spoke sharper—that was all.
“Well,” said he. “Things are going to be different all round; better too.”
He turned away towards the bureau, and Church opened the door.
“You don’t want me any longer, my Lord?”
“Not just now.”
He opened Kelly’s directory, and looked up the solicitors, till he came to the name he wanted.
Mortimer Collins, 10, Sergeant’s Inn, Fleet Street.
“That’s my man,” said he to himself, “and to-morrow I will see him.” He closed the book and left the room.
He did not know the position of the dining room, nor did he want to. A servant seeing him, and taking it for granted that at this late hour he did not want to dress, opened a door.