This Writ was issued by Jacob King
of 16 Flag Buildings, Inner Temple
whose Address for Service is 16 Flag Buildings, Inner Temple
Solicitor for the said Plaintiff , who resides at The Hotel Splendide.
Mr. Blagden read this document three times over: first mechanically, noting only the larger printed words; then still more mechanically, noting nothing at all; lastly, with a concentrated attention, closely following every syllable of the Royal harshness to his Liege and puzzled at the reappearance of that address “The Hotel Splendide.” Could there be some mistake? Could he be claiming damages against himself?
He had not yet the habits of his new rank in our plutocracy. He did not summon his secretary, for he had none. He did not even send for a messenger, for it was not in his habits to afford such luxuries. He simply sat and wondered what men did under worries of this kind.
Then he bethought him of the dear old family lawyer, Mr. Wilkins.
Everything belonging to that real life of his—better, for all its troubles than the mad episode of fortune—was to Mr. Blagden now at once very distinct and very small, like a picture looked at through one of these diminishing glasses which the block makers use to decide on the effect of a wash drawing when it shall be reduced to scale. The image of Mr. Wilkins stood out thus exceedingly sharp and yet still remote. It was Mr. Wilkins who had presided over the steady decline of his mother’s income and his own. It was Mr. Wilkins who had drawn a substantial income from loyal work performed for a dozen such families of the declining gentry—clients inherited from his worthy father and grandfather; for it was a fine old firm. It was Mr. Wilkins who had given him every possible piece of advice—on legal technicalities always accurate, on policy always bad—since he had come of age. To Mr. Wilkins he now turned. He remembered the telephone number well enough, and considered curiously within himself what a strange thing this faculty of memory must be, that not only faded, but could be wholly exiled, and then could present the past again with all the violent reality of immediate things.
As he waited for the answer on the machine it struck him that Mr. Wilkins might be dead. He was twelve years older than Mr. Blagden, and an absence of twenty-eight months is a gap. To his joy he heard the same clerk’s familiar voice answering with the same irritability it had invariably answered with in the old days, he heard the familiar formula when he had given his name, that he would be put through to Mr. Wilkins; and at last he heard once more the familiar tones of the principal, still clear in his sober age. They wasted very little time in greetings. Mr. Wilkins was free? Mr. Blagden would go round now, at once.
An old association of more than thirty years endeared the two men to each other; money lost upon the one side and gained upon the other was a further bond.
Mr. Wilkins heard patiently the details; of the sudden loss of memory, the name Petre, the financial dealings, the writ. He showed not the faintest surprise at any part of the extraordinary story of lost identity (which he entirely disbelieved), he jotted down dates and then gave tongue.
He used the customary string of technicalities, to each of which was attached a customary payment. He took for granted, in that clear-cut professional manner which was part of his job, that his client had done something quite amazingly astute; that he had been running very close to the wind. He felt a strong professional admiration for so much daring and skill. Who would have expected it of Peter Blagden? He changed his tone to one of conversation and said: