Early in the afternoon—at forty minutes past twelve, to be exact—of a sunny day in late spring, a tall, hatchet-faced man, accompanied by a small, sprightly lady, strolled at a leisurely pace through Pump Court and presently emerged into the cloisters, where he and his companion halted and looked about them.
“What a lovely old place it is!” the latter exclaimed, letting her eyes travel appreciatively from the porch of the Temple Church to the façade of Lamb Buildings. “Wouldn’t you like to live here, Jack?”
“I should,” he replied. “It is delightful to look at whichever way you turn; and there is such a delicious atmosphere of peace and quiet.”
She laughed merrily. “Peace and quiet!” she repeated. “Peace, perfect peace. That has always been the desire of your heart, hasn’t it? Oh, you ol
