There was nothing to be gained from questioning Luke Tulliver, the court knew of old experience.

The most mysterious dungeons of the Spanish Inquisition, the secret chambers under the leads in Venice, were not closer or deeper than the mind of that young man.

The court had been inclined to think that Luke Tulliver would come into all his master's money; and opinion inclined that way even yet, seeing that Mr.Tulliver still held his ground in the shop, and that no strangers had been seen to enter the place since the funeral.
From Queen Anne's Court Gilbert Fenton went on to the gloomy street where Mr.Medler had his office and abode.

It was not an hour for a professional visit; but Gilbert found the lawyer still hard at work at his desk, under the lurid light of a dirty-looking battered old oil-lamp, which left the corners of the dingy wainscoted room in profound obscurity.

He looked up from his papers with some show of surprise on hearing Mr.Fenton's name announced by the slipshod maid-of-all-work who had admitted the late visitor, Mr.Medler's solitary clerk having departed to his own dwelling some hours before.
"I must ask you to excuse this untimely call, Mr.Medler," Gilbert said politely; "but the fact of the matter is, I am a little anxious about my friend Mrs.Holbrook and her affairs, and I thought you the most likely person to give me some information about them.