"But—but—" he stammered, "surely this is most unprofessional. Such a thing has never happened to me in all my twenty years of practice."
"And I don't suppose," rejoined the young advocate, "it will ever happen to you again. But suppose we leave the plane of our professionalism, step down from our platform, and approach the prejudices of each other in a rational spirit."
"No more argument, I beseech you," said the solicitor sternly; "I've got to get to Norbiton. Return the brief, and we will say no more. You are not the man for this case. You have a bee in your bonnet; you have too many brains. I think none the worse of you, mind; I respect you; you have your ideas; one day they may prove valuable, but not in common law. You have mistaken your métier, that is all. We will say you are above your work; at any rate, with all deference to Michael Tobin, I shall prefer to see Harris holding briefs of ours before a common-sense English jury and a matter-of-fact English judge when it comes to the capital charge."
"If you are present in court on Friday," said Northcote, "you will find that I, not Harris, will still be holding the brief you entrusted to my care."
"Upon my word," muttered the solicitor to himself, "this fellow is a madman, a lunatic. I dare say he's been starving so long that a square meal has turned his brain."
Involuntarily his eyes began to traverse the face of the man who sat bolt upright with arms folded at the other side of the table. It was excessively pale, flushed with wine and conversation, and strangely, exquisitely mobile. It had a kind of
