passed into his own room, and proceeded to do his duty as a solicitor by reaching for the telephone, with the object of reserving a table for lunch at the club. As he was in the midst of this professional occupation, a clerk, to his intense annoyance, begged him to receive as a matter of urgency a Mr. Postlethwaite. The name was familiar to Mr. Kirby, and he groaned in spirit.
"Oh, Mr. Blake can see him!" he said impatiently. "No, he can't; no, I remember, he can't."
He scratched his chin and managed to frown at the forehead without relaxing that small perpetual smile.
"Send him in here," he sighed; "and look here, Thurston, has he got anything with him?"
"Not that I could see, Sir," answered the clerk respectfully.
"Oh, I don't mean a dog or a sister-in-law," replied Mr. Kirby without dignity and somewhat impatiently. "I mean a damned great roll of paper."
"Well, sir," said Thurston the clerk with continued respect, "he certainly carried something of that sort in his hand."
"Show him in, Thurston, show him in,"
