One more visitor--unusual for so many to call on a September
afternoon. This time it was a youngish man of thirty or so, who
stepped into the shop with an air of business, and, taking no notice
at all of the assistant, walked swiftly into the back shop and shut
the door behind him.

"I thought so," murmured Mr. James. "After he's been counting up his
investments, his lawyer calls. More investments."

Mr. David Chalker was a solicitor and, according to his friends, who
were proud of him, a sharp practitioner. He was, in fact, one of those
members of the profession who, starting with no connection, have to
make business for themselves. This, in London, they do by encouraging
the county court, setting neighbors by the ears, lending money in
small sums, fomenting quarrels, charging commissions, and generally
making themselves a blessing and a boon to the district where they
reside. But chiefly Mr. Chalker occupied himself with lending money.

"Now, Mr. Emblem," he said, not in a menacing tone, but as one who
warns; "now, Mr. Emblem."

"Now, Mr. Chalker," the bookseller repeated mildly.

"What are you going to do for me?"

"I got your usual notice," the old bookseller began, hesitating, "six
months ago."

"Of course you did. Three fifty is the amount. Three fifty, exactly."