“Thank you, my dear sir,” answered Mr. Ball, “speaking for self and partner, I think I may say that we are well.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Tongs.
“But,” resumed Mr. Ball, turning to the table, “your time is precious, Mr. Horn. Shall we proceed?”
“If you please, gentlemen.”
“Very well,” said the lawyer, taking up a bundle of papers; “these are the letters relating to the case of your unfortunate cousin. Shall I give you their contents in due order, Mr. Horn?”
“If you please,” and “Cobbler” Horn composed himself to listen, with a grave face.
The letters were from the agents of Messrs. Tongs and Ball in New York; and the information they conveyed was to the effect that “Cobbler” Horn’s scapegrace cousin had been traced to a poor lodging-house in that city, where he was slowly dying of consumption. He might last for months, but it was possible he would not linger more than a few weeks.
“Cobbler” Horn listened to the reading of the letters with head down-bent. When it was finished, he looked up.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said; “have you done anything?”
Mr. Ball gazed at his client through his spectacles, over the top of the last of the letters, which he still held open in his hand, and there was gentle expostulation in his eye.