"What the devil can he want of me? Are you certain he did not ask for my uncle?"
"Yes, sir—the Honourable Mr. Verney—which I told him he wasn't here."
"And why did not you send him away, then?"
"He asked me if you were here, and wished to see you partickler, sir."
"Larkin—The Lodge; what is he like—tall or short—old or young?" asked Cleve.
"Tall gentleman, please, sir—not young—helderley, sir, rayther."
"By Jove! Larkin? I think it is.—Is he bald—a long face, eh?" asked Cleve with sudden interest.
"Yes, sir, a good deal in that way, sir—rayther."
"Show him in," said Cleve; "I shall hear all about it, now," he soliloquised as the man departed. "Yes, the luckiest thing in the world!"
The tall attorney, with the tall bald head and pink eyelids, entered simpering, with hollow jaws, and a stride that was meant to be perfectly easy and gentlemanlike. Mr. Larkin had framed his costume upon something he had once seen upon somebody whom he secretly worshipped as a great authority in quiet elegance. But every article in the attorney's wardrobe looked always new—a sort of lavender was his favourite tint—a lavender waistcoat, lavender trowsers, lavender gloves—so that, as the tall lank figure came in, a sort of blooming and vernal effect, in spite of his open black frock-coat, seemed to enter and freshen the chamber.