"He was that curious, a regular Paul Pry!" explained the servant to John
Steele, in narrating the incident on the latter's return to London.
"Seemed specially taken by the reports of the old trials you have on the
shelves, sir. 'What an interesting collection of _causes célèbres!_' he
kept remarking. 'I suppose your master makes much of them?' He would
have been handling of them, too, and when I showed him the
door--trusting I did right, sir, even if he should happen to be a
client!--he asked more questions before going."

"What questions?" quietly.

"Personal-like. But I put a stop to that."

For a few moments John Steele said nothing; his face, on his
reappearance in London, had looked slightly paler, more set and
determined, not unlike that of a man, who, strongly assailed, has made
up his mind to do battle to the end. With whom? How many? He might put
out his hand, clench it; the thin air made no answer. He regarded the
shadows now; they seemed to wave around him, intangible, obscure. A dark
day in town, the streets were oppressive; the people below passed like
poorly done replicas of themselves; the rattle of the wheels resembled a
sullen, disgruntled mumble.

"You will admit no one to my chambers during my absence in the future,"
said Steele at length, to the man, sternly. "No one, you understand,
under any pretext whatever; even," a flicker of grim humor in the deep
eyes, "if he should say he was a client of mine!"

The butler returned a subdued answer, and John Steele, after a moment's
thought, stepped to a large safe in the corner, and applying a somewhat