“I’m in search of a good lawyer,” said Westbrook to John Barrington one day. “Can you recommend one to me?”
“Indeed I can. I have in mind the very man—he’s been doing a little work for me, and he is very highly spoken of.”
“That sounds about O. K. Who is he?”
“That’s just the point,” laughed the older man; “the name’s escaped me. He’s from the East—hasn’t been here very long. I’ll tell you what—I’ll bring him into your office tomorrow. Will that do?”
“It will—and thank you.”
Westbrook’s “office” was something new. A life of leisure was becoming wearisome; consequently he invested in various bits of real estate, opened an office, put a man in charge, and of late had himself tended strictly to business, such time as he could spare from his social engagements.
It was into this office that Mr. Barrington came one morning accompanied by a short, smooth-faced man whose garments were irreproachable in style and cut.
“Ah, Westbrook,” began Barrington, “let me introduce Mr. Martin, of Martin & Gray, the lawyer of whom I was telling you yesterday.”
Again the room and all it contained—save the figure of Martin himself—faded from Westbrook’s sight, and he saw the New England street with the lawyer’s sign in the foreground. The next moment the vision was gone, and he had extended a cordial hand.
“I’m very glad to meet Mr. Martin,” he said, looking the lawyer straight in the eye.