“There’s young Mr. Barrett, but he seldom comes down in the forenoon, sir.”
Grant suppressed a grin. “The Barretts are a somewhat leisurely family, I take it,” he remarked.
“They have been very successful,” said the clerk, with a touch of reserve.
“Apparently; but who does the work?”
“Mr. Jones is in his office. Would you care to send in your card?”
“No, I think I’ll just take it in.” He pressed through a counter-gate and opened a door upon which was emblazoned the name of Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones proved to be a man with thin, iron-grey hair and a stubby, pugnacious moustache. He sat at a desk at the end of a long, narrow room, down both sides of which were rows of cases filled with impressive-looking books. He did not raise his eyes when Grant entered, but continued poring over a file of correspondence.
“What an existence!” Grant commented to himself. “And yet I suppose this man thinks he’s alive.”
Grant remained standing for a moment, but as the lawyer showed no disposition to divide his attention he presently advanced to the desk. Mr. Jones looked up.
“You are Mr. Jones, I believe?”