The solicitor stared in astonishment, took out his snuff-box, put it back again, and then exclaimed sharply--

"But I want _you_, sir, you."

"Then," said Luke, smiling, "I am afraid you will have to double the fee upon the brief, Mr Swift. So much work has come to me of late, that I have been compelled to make that my fee."

"And with a refresher, sir?" said the solicitor, dropping the patronising air for one of increased respect.

"And with a refresher, sir," replied the young barrister.

Mr Swift glanced from him to the brief he had been studying and back.

"Why, you are not in Regina _versus_ Finlayson, sir?" he said. "Morley and Shorter told me that they had given the brief to some one, endorsed fifty."

"I am the humble individual, Mr Swift," said Luke, who in his calm, grave way seemed to be amused.

Without another word the solicitor s.n.a.t.c.hed up the quill, dipped it, and dashing out the twenty-live guineas, rapidly wrote above it "50 _gs_."

"There, sir," he said, blotting it with a bang upon the writing-table, "we must have you, sir. We want to have you, Mr Ross. You will take this for us--it's for the prosecution, sir,--a most important case. It is, really, sir."

"It is astonishing how often the case is most important in the eyes of the firm of solicitors, and how very ordinary it turns out, Mr Swift, when it comes into court. But there, Mr Swift, I'll do my best for your client," and he rose.

The solicitor took the hint, and picked up his hat and blue bag.

"Thank you, Mr Ross; thank you, sir. I am very, very glad. Our first brief, Mr Ross. The first, sir, of many. Good morning."

He shook hands with a look of the most profound veneration for the eminent young legal light, whose brilliancy was beginning to be discussed a good deal, both in and out of court.

"Good morning, Mr Swift," said Lake. "I'll try and get you a verdict."

"You will, sir; I'm sure you will," said the solicitor, bowing as he reached the door, and then hurrying back. "One moment, Mr Ross--a word from an old limb of the law, sir. You are a young man, and not above listening to advice."

"Certainly not," said Luke, smiling, "if it be good."

"'Tis good, sir. Take it. Do away with that boy, and have a quiet, elderly clerk, sir. Gives dignity to your office. Good morning."

He nodded this time, and shut the door after him, carefully opened the baize portal, and pa.s.sed through that, to change his whole aspect as he found a very tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man, in glossy black, and with a heavy gold eyegla.s.s swinging outside his b.u.t.toned-up surtout.

The countenance of the tall, thin man changed a little, too; but they shook hands warmly.

"Won't do, Hampton, if you've come about the Esdaile case," he said.

"Never you mind what I've come about," said the tall man, with asperity.

"Oh, I don't, my dear sir, for we've got Ross for the prosecution."

"Con--Tut, tut, tut. Oh, hang it, Swift, this is too bad."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the solicitor.

"But, look here, honour bright?"

"Honour bright, my dear sir. Go and ask him."

"I'll take your word, Swift. Give me a pinch of snuff. What, have you endorsed the brief, eh?"

The solicitor whispered.

"Have you, though? Well, I should have done the same. It will be silk one of these days."

"Safe, sir, safe," said the other; and they went out together, just as a cab stopped at the end of the narrow lane, and, looking very thin and old, and dry, but bright and active still, old Michael Ross stepped out; and then, with a very shabby, long old carpet bag in one hand, and a baggy green umbrella, with staghorn handle, in the other, trotted down the incline into the Temple till he reached the staircase, at the foot of which, on one of the door-posts, was painted a column of names.

"Hah!" said the old man, smiling, as he set down his bag, and balanced a clumsy pair of gla.s.ses on his nose, holding them up with one hand.

"This is it. Number nine. Ground floor, Mr Sergeant Towle; Mr Barnard, Q.C. First floor, Mr Ross."

"Hah!" he muttered, with a chuckle, "first floor, Mr Ross. I wonder whether he's at home.

"No," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "That's wrong. Should be, 'I wonder whether he's in court.'"

The old man stopped short in the entry, with the door leading to Mr Sergeant Towle's chambers before, and that leading to the chambers of Mr Barnard, Q.C., behind, and drew forth his washed-out and faded red cotton handkerchief.

"I wonder whether he'll be glad to see me," he said. "I'm only a shabby-looking old fellow, and I dare say I've brought the smell of the tan-pits with me; and they tell me my son is getting to be quite a famous lawyer--quite the gentleman, too. Ah, it's a great change--a great change. And I didn't tell him I was coming; and p'raps it isn't right to take him so by surprise. He mightn't like it."

The old man rubbed his damp fingers on his handkerchief, and looked about him in a troubled, helpless way.

"I feel always so mazed-like in this noisy London," he said, weakly; "and if he was hurt about my coming it would about break my heart, that it would."

The handkerchief was on its way up to his eyes, where the weak tears were gathering, when there was the sound of voices in the chambers of Mr Sergeant Towle, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing up his bag, the old man trotted, pretty nimbly, up the stone stairs to the first floor, where, upon the pale drab door, there was the legend, "Mr Ross."

"Mr Ross," said the old man, chuckling to himself. "Mr Ross. That's my son. G.o.d bless him! My son; and I'd have given a hundred golden pounds if my dear old wife had been alive, and could have stood here and seen his name writ large and famous on a door in London town like that."

He stood admiring it for some minutes, and then hesitated, as if overcome by the importance of his son; but at last he raised the big umbrella, and tapped gently with the staghorn beak.

It was a very modest knock, and it was not answered, so at the end of five minutes he knocked again.

This time Mr Richard Dixie--d.i.c.ky Dix, as he was familiarly called-- verified the words of Mr Swift, the solicitor (Cripple and Swift, of Gresham-street), by staring hard at the shabby-looking little old man and his bag, and then coming a little way out to stare at the doorpost, to the surprise of old Ross.

"It ain't broke," said the boy.

"What isn't broke, sir?" said the old man, humbly.

That 'sir' was like so much nerve to one who did not need it; and, turning sharply to the old man, he gave another glance at the shabby bag.

"Then what do you want to come a banging at the door with your old umbrelly for?"

"I didn't see the bell, sir," said the old man, humbly. "Is--is your master in?"

"Got anything to sell?" said the boy, sharply.