"Lawyer Knivett, is it, sir, that you want? He lives close to the market-house, in the centre of the town."
"Which is my way to it?"
"Go to the end of the street, sir: take the first turning on the left, New Street, and that will bring you into the street where the marketplace is. Anybody will tell you which is Lawyer Knivett's."
Just as in the days, some months gone by, poor Anthony had been directed to the lawyer's house, and readily found it, so did the younger brother find it now. The brass-plate on the door, "Mr. Knivett, attorney-at-law," stared him in the face as he halted there. During the dinner-hour, between half-past one and two, this outer door was always shut; an intimation that clients were not wanted to call just then: at other times it was generally, though not invariably, open: impatient clients would often give it a bang behind them in escaping. Mr. North rang the bell, and was admitted to the clerk's room, where a young man, with curled black hair and a nose like a parrot's, sat behind a desk near the window, writing.
"Can I see Mr. Knivett?" asked George.
The young man stretched his neck forward to take a look at the applicant. "It's not office-hours," said he in answer, his tone superlatively distant.
"When will it be office-hours?"
"After two o'clock."
"Can I see him then--if I wait?"
"Well, yes, I suppose you can. There's a chair"--extending the feather-end of his pen to point it out: which caused the diamond ring he wore on his finger to flash in the sunlight.