Sir Harold Anstey came bustling into his pleasant chambers. He had only just come back from a long week-end, there was a bright fire burning in the attractive, wasteful, eighteenth-century grate, and the famous Old Bailey barrister felt not only fresh and keen, but on the happiest terms with himself and the world.
The great advocate was a big, florid, good-looking man, and so popular a bachelor that it was no wonder he had never made up his mind to become true to one lady.
Like most successful men, he attached great importance to the Press of his country, and he paid considerable court to those newspaper men with whom he came in contact. So of the pile of letters, opened and unopened, on his writing-table, Sir Harold first turned to a bulky envelope from his press-cutting agency.
The en
