"I am looking," said he in a peculiar, sing-song manner I have
since learned to be English, "for the Honourable Timothy Clare.
Is he here?"

"Oh, you're looking for him are you?" said I. "And who might you
be?"

You see, I liked Tim, and I didn't intend to deliver him over
into trouble.

The man picked a pair of eye-glasses off his stomach where they
dangled at the end of a chain, perched them on his nose, and
stared me over. I must have looked uncompromising, for after a
few seconds he abruptly wrinkled his nose so that the glasses
fell promptly to his stomach again, felt his waistcoat pocket,
and produced a card. I took it, and read:

JEFFRIES CASE, Barrister.

"A lawyer!" said I suspiciously.

"My dear man," he rejoined with a slight impatience, "I am not
here to do your young friend a harm. In fact, my firm have been
his family solicitors for generations."

"Very well," I agreed, and led the way to the one-room adobe that
Tim and I occupied.

If I had expected an enthusiastic greeting for the boyhood friend