"That was what I gathered," said I.

Marchmont gazed at us for a moment with a surprised expression and then,
laughing good-humouredly, fortified himself with a draught of ale.

"The moral of which is," Thorndyke added, "that testamentary
dispositions should not be mixed up with beef-steak pudding."

"I believe you're right, Thorndyke," said the unabashed solicitor.
"Business is business and eating is eating. We had better talk over our
case in my office or your chambers after lunch."

"Yes," said Thorndyke, "come over to the Temple with me and I will give
you a cup of coffee to clear your brain. Are there any documents?"

"I have all the papers here in my bag," replied Marchmont; and the
conversation--such conversation as is possible "when beards wag all"
over the festive board--drifted into other channels.

As soon as the meal was finished and the reckoning paid, we trooped out
of Wine Office Court, and, insinuating ourselves through the line of
empty hansoms that, in those days, crawled in a continuous procession
on either side of Fleet Street, betook ourselves by way of Mitre Court
to King's Bench Walk. There, when the coffee had been requisitioned and
our chairs drawn up around the fire, Mr. Marchmont unloaded from his bag
a portentous bundle of papers, and we addressed ourselves to the
business in hand.

"Now," said Marchmont, "let me repeat what I said before. Legally
speaking, we have no case--not the ghost of one. But my client wished to