“It will keep me just one week longer, not counting in any washing,” he muttered; then adding, with a grim smile: “and a lawyer with dirty wristbands and collar is not likely to invite many clients.”
Just then a newsboy passed through the corridor, calling his paper.
“I shall be wrecked indeed if I cannot have the daily news,” Earle said, bitterly, as he sprang impatiently to his feet.
He picked up a bit of silver, and, going to the door, bought a paper.
Coming back, and, as if reckless of consequences, he lighted the gas, turning on the full blaze, and then seating himself comfortably in one chair and putting his feet in another, he began to read.
Scarcely had he done so when he heard a shuffling step outside in the corridor, and then there came a rap on his door.
Wondering who should seek him at that hour, he arose and opened it.
A short, thin-visaged, wiry man, of about fifty, stood without.
With a little bob of his head, he said, in a voice as thin as his face:
“You’re the chap that conducted the Galgren case, ain’t you?”