“What is the nature of your business?” he politely asked, after examining the card which I handed him to introduce myself.
“You will find it there,” I answered, placing before him an old Times newspaper, and pointing to an advertisement marked in pencil. “I presume it is your firm, Mr Lawson, to which this application is to be made?”
“It is,” he said, starting up from his office chair, as if I had presented a pistol at his head. “It is very long ago, but no matter for that. Do you know anything of the gentleman to whom it refers?”
“Yes, something,” I replied, cautiously—not knowing how far I might be committing the interests of my South American friend.
“He is still alive, then? I mean Mr Henry Harding?”
“I have reason to think so. He was alive two months ago.”
“By —!” exclaimed the lawyer, using a phrase evidently forced from him by the importance of the occasion. “This is serious, indeed. But, sir, are you quite sure? You will excuse me if I ask on which side you come. I know your name, sir. I believe I can trust you to speak candidly. Are you here as a friend of Mr Nigel Harding?”
“If I had been, Mr Lawson, it is not likely I should have given you the information it has just been my pleasure to impart. From all I’ve heard, Mr Nigel Harding would be the last man to be gratified by learning that his brother is alive.”
My speech had a magical effect on Mr Lawson. I could see at once he was upon our side, as he saw that I was upon his. Out of doors I had already heard, that he was no longer the trusted attorney of the Beechwood estate.
“And you assure me he is alive?” was the question again put with an emphasis that showed its importance.