“Yes, that’s a chance for Henry Northcote,” were his first words, uttered under the breath.
“The fee is not much,” said the solicitor, with the precision of the man of affairs entering his fat voice. “You will not be briefed at more than twenty guineas.”
“To-night I think I would sell my soul for half that sum,” said the young man, with an excited laugh.
“Is not that a somewhat damaging admission for you to make?” said the solicitor.
“I agree, I agree,” said the young man; “but the truth is never discreet.”
“There’s no money in this case,” said the solicitor, “and I’m afraid there is no kudos. It is one of those disagreeable cases which are not only irreclaimably sordid, but also as dead as mutton. In order to obtain a small sum of money, a woman of the ‘unfortunate’ class has poisoned a man with whom she lived. She is one of those cold-blooded persons who are born for the gallows. There is enough evidence to hang her ten times. We shall be forced to submit to the inevitable.”
“You disappoint me,” said Northcote. “I was thinking of a real fighting case.”
The solicitor smiled, with a faint suggestion of patronage.
“I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said the young man, quickly. “Had there been any life in the case you would not have carried it to one so obscure. Even as it is, I ought to be grateful to you—and I am grateful indeed—for putting it in my way.”
“The circumstances of this case are somewhat peculiar,” said the solicitor. “We are under rather severe pressure in the matter of time. The case will be called on the day after to-morrow at the Central Criminal Court.”