“Then what is the English of this item—‘Lease of premises in Lincoln’s Inn Fields?’” demanded Mr. Stewart, referring to a paper in his hand. “What the devil do you mean by even proposing that the offices of the company should be stuck up there? We shall next be paying for the goodwills of depôts in Highbury New Park and Camden Square.”
“I do not see why the offices should not be in Lincoln’s Inn Fields,” observed Mr. Black.
“And I do not see why they should be in any such graveyard,” answered Mr. Stewart. “Deuce a thing there is in Lincoln’s Inn except lawyers’ offices, and one or two places where they insure lives, and preserve skeletons, and grant licences to kill. What connection has Lincoln’s Inn with bread-making? I must bring this matter before the board, but thought, in the first instance, I would give you a chance of explaining yourself to me.”
Mr. Black looked at the speaker, and turned the last clause of his sentence over before replying. Meanwhile, Mr. Stewart stood on the hearth-rug, with his coat-tails tucked up over his arms, airing himself in true British fashion in front of the fire. In this attitude he looked a man of whom no person would have cared to solicit a cheque—to whom no defaulting debtor would have cared to prefer a petition for time in which to pay.
A gentlemanly-looking individual, no doubt, who could have handed Lady Grace down to dinner in an aristocratic and suitable manner—who could have received one of the blood royal after the fashion which is popularly supposed to obtain at Court ceremonials; a very charming personage, doubtless, when complimenting young ladies on their singing, or asking materfamilias if all those velvet-tuniced lads were hers; but not a nice man with whom to discuss money matters, not a pleasant man to try to take in—to strive to wind round your finger—to endeavour to make use of.
Vaguely, Mr. Black, looking up at his grey-haired, hard-featured, plain-spoken visitor, grasped all this ere he answered:
“Lincoln’s Inn Fields is as good a place as any other in which to have our permanent offices. The address reads well. It implies to the country imaginative lawyers; and lawyers, it pleases country people to think, know what they are about. Further, it is central. Gentlemen will not get their broughams knocked to pieces coming there, as they would do if they ventured with West End coachmen into the city. Moreover, if strangers staying at an hotel ask for Lincoln’s Inn Fields, any idiot of a waiter can direct them to the place. There is something about the sound of Lincoln’s Inn Fields which recommends itself to me. I cannot think why you object to the situation, Mr. Stewart.”
“I object,” answered Mr. Stewart, “on two grounds: first, that I consider Lincoln’s Inn Fields an unsuitable position; and secondly, that I consider the whole affair a job.”
“A job!” repeated Mr. Black, reddening.
“Yes, sir, a job,” was the reply. “Who is this Mr. Dudley? How does he chance to be the owner of that desirable leasehold property which you are trying to get the company to buy? I see his name on the direction. Who is he?—what is he? Is there such a person as Arthur Dudley, Esquire? Is there such a place as Berrie Down Hollow at all?”