On a certain Saturday afternoon at a few minutes to three the door of Mr. Woodstock’s office in High Street, Burchester, opened somewhat abruptly and disclosed the figures of the solicitor himself and his chief clerk.
“Confounded nuisance all this fuss and foolery,” growled the former, pulling out his watch and casting an impatient glance up the street. “I hope he is not going to keep us waiting.”
“He is not due till three,” Hepburn remarked, soothingly; and then, stepping out and peering up the nearly empty street, he added: “Perhaps that may be he—that tall man with the little clerical-looking person.”
“If it is, he seems to be bringing his luggage with him,” said Mr. Woodstock, regarding the pair, and especially the suit-cases that they carried, with evident disfavour; “but you are r
