old acquaintance at the lawyer’s office, a man named Scawthorne, whom he was going to see in private before having an interview with the lawyer himself. At six o’clock the appointed meeting took place, and from Chancery Lane the pair walked to a quiet house of refreshment in the vicinity of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. On the way they exchanged a few insignificant remarks, having reference to a former intimacy and a period during which they had not come across each other. Established in a semi-private room, with a modest stimulant to aid conversation, they became more at ease; Mr. Scawthorne allowed himself a discreet smile, and Joseph, fingering his glass, broached the matter at issue with a cautious question.
“Do you know anything of a man called Snowdon?”
“What Snowdon?”
“Joseph James Snowdon,—a friend of mine. Your people advertised for him about three years ago. Perhaps you haven’t been at the office as long as that?”
