'A very good sort of a man. Why do you ask?'
'I want to know—for his advantage—oh! yes—yes—for his own advantage.'
'Yes.' The barrister retreated to his paper. 'Oh, yes,' he added. 'Quite so.'
'For his great personal advantage,' Checkley repeated.—'Robert, I think the gentleman would take a tumbler, if you will bring it—hot, Robert—strong—with lemon and sugar—a large rummer, Robert.'
The ancient barrister's head behind the paper was observed to tremble.
Robert returned with his rummer, the glass spoon tinkling an invitation. Dinner had been but a sorry affair that day—a stop-gap—insufficient in bulk; the tempted man felt a yearning that could not be resisted. He stretched out his hand and took the glass and tasted it. Then turning to Checkley:
'You have purchased my speech, sir. You were asking me about Mr. Edmund Gray. What do you wish to know?'
'Everything—his business—his private life—anything.'
'As for his business, he has none; he is a gentleman living on his means—like myself; but his means are larger than my own: he has a residence elsewhere—I don't know where; he uses his Chambers but little: he has a collection of books there, and he keeps them for purposes of study.'
'Does he call there every day?'