Two or three days later, Sir Francis Vesey was sitting in his private office, a musty den encased within the heart of the city, listening, or trying to listen, to the dull clerical monotone of a clerk's dry voice detailing the wearisome items of certain legal formulae preliminary to an impending case.

Sir Francis had yawned capaciously once or twice, and had played absently with a large ink-stained paperknife,--signs that his mind was wandering somewhat from the point at issue.

He was a conscientious man, but he was getting old, and the disputations of obstinate or foolish clients were becoming troublesome to him.

Moreover, the case concerning which his clerk was prosing along in the style of a chapel demagogue engaged in extemporary prayer, was an extremely uninteresting one, and he thought hazily of his lunch.

The hour for that meal was approaching,--a fact for which he was devoutly thankful.