Or even to-morrow.
6
Mr. Sandal, of Cosset, Thring and Noble, was nearing the end of his afternoon's work and his mind was beginning its daily debate as to whether it should be the 4.55 or the 5.15 that should bear him home. This was almost the only debate that ever exercised Mr. Sandal's mind. The clients of Cosset, Thring and Noble were of two kinds only: those who made up their own minds about a problem and told their solicitors in firm tones what they wanted done, and those who had no problems. The even pulse of the Georgian office in the shadow of the plane trees was never quickened by unexpected news or untoward happenings. Even the death of a client was not news: clients were expected to die; the appropriate will would be in the appropriate deed-box and things would go on as before.
Family solicitors; that is what Cosset, Thring and Noble were. Keepers of wills and protectors of secrets; but not wrestlers with problems. Which is why Mr. Sandal was by no means the best person to take what was coming to him.
"Is that all, Mercer?" he said to his clerk, who had been showing a visitor out.
"There's one client in the waiting-room, sir. Young Mr. Ashby."
"Ashby? Of Latchetts?"
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, good; good. Bring in a pot of tea, Mercer, will you?"
"Yes, sir." And to the client: "Will you come in, sir?"