"Do you reside within that noble old portico?" I asked.

"No," replied Thorndyke. "I often wish I did. It would add several
inches to one's stature to feel that the mouth of one's burrow was
graced with a Latin inscription for admiring strangers to ponder over.
No; my chambers are some doors further down--number 6A"--and he turned
to point out the house as we crossed towards Crown Office Row.

At the top of Middle Temple Lane we parted, Thorndyke taking his way
with fluttering gown towards the Law Courts, while I directed my steps
westward towards Adam Street, the chosen haunt of the medical agent.

The soft-voiced bell of the Temple clock was telling out the hour of
seven in muffled accents (as though it apologised for breaking the
studious silence) as I emerged from the archway of Mitre Court and
turned into King's Bench Walk.

The paved footway was empty save for a single figure, pacing slowly
before the doorway of number 6A, in which, though the wig had now given
place to a felt hat and the gown to a jacket, I had no difficulty in
recognising my friend.

"Punctual to the moment, as of old," said he, meeting me half-way. "What
a blessed virtue is punctuality, even in small things. I have just been
taking the air in Fountain Court, and will now introduce you to my
chambers. Here is my humble retreat."

We passed in through the common entrance and ascended the stone stairs
to the first floor, where we were confronted by a massive door, above