AT LAST




CHAPTER I

MY LEARNED BROTHER


"Conflagratam An° 1677. Fabricatam An° 1698. Richardo Powell Armiger
Thesaurar." The words, set in four panels, which formed a frieze beneath
the pediment of a fine brick portico, summarised the history of one of
the tall houses at the upper end of King's Bench Walk and as I, somewhat
absently, read over the inscription, my attention was divided between
admiration of the exquisitely finished carved brickwork and the quiet
dignity of the building, and an effort to reconstitute the dead and gone
Richard Powell, and the stirring times in which he played his part.

I was about to turn away when the empty frame of the portico became
occupied by a figure, and one so appropriate, in its wig and obsolete
habiliments, to the old-world surroundings that it seemed to complete
the picture, and I lingered idly to look at it. The barrister had halted
in the doorway to turn over a sheaf of papers that he held in his hand,
and, as he replaced the red tape which bound them together, he looked up
and our eyes met. For a moment we regarded one another with the
incurious gaze that casual strangers bestow on one another; then there
was a flash of mutual recognition; the impassive and rather severe face
of the lawyer softened into a genial smile, and the figure, detaching
itself from its frame, came down the steps with a hand extended in