him out—such a smile! Yes, Mr. Lipsky knew that private house of Mr. Kirby's! He had been granted two or three interviews there. He knew it extraordinarily well.
The lawyer went back through the sunlit streets at a loose end. He felt unusually leisured, though he was a leisured man. Like the peri in the poem, his task was done.
He basked through that afternoon. He rang up the Rockingham Hotel in London to reserve a room and to order dinner for the next day. He rang up his friend Brassington again, to be sure of the appointment, and to be sure that Brassington was bringing his son. Then, when evening came, he took down the big London telephone book and looked up the number of Sir Alexander McAuley, the great doctor. It was years since Mr. Kirby had seen him; but they had known each other well in the past, and he would not mind the liberty. Besides which, what Mr. Kirby wanted as he called up Trunks after dinner that Tuesday evening was not Sir Alexander, but his son, Mr. James. Time pressed, and Mr. Kirby was very keen on talking to Mr. James McAuley.
He got Sir Alexander's house. He heard that Mr. James McAuley was out. He got
