lawyers, of course."

"Yes?" said Pratt inquiringly. "And--what may it be?" He was expecting
the visitor to produce something, but the old man again leaned forward,
and dug his finger once more into the clerk's sleeve.

"I say!" he whispered. "You remember John Mallathorpe and the affair
of--how long is it since?"

"Two years," answered Pratt promptly. "Of course I do. Couldn't very
well forget it, or him."

He let his mind go back for the moment to an affair which had provided
Barford and the neighbourhood with a nine days' sensation. One winter
morning, just two years previously, Mr. John Mallathorpe, one of the
best-known manufacturers and richest men of the town, had been killed by
the falling of his own mill-chimney. The condition of the chimney had
been doubtful for some little time; experts had been examining it for
several days: at the moment of the catastrophe, Mallathorpe himself,
some of his principal managers, and a couple of professional
steeple-jacks, were gathered at its base, consulting on a report. The
great hundred-foot structure above them had collapsed without the
slightest warning: Mallathorpe, his principal manager, and his cashier,
had been killed on the spot: two other bystanders had subsequently died
from injuries received. No such accident had occurred in Barford, nor in
the surrounding manufacturing district, for many years, and there had
been much interest in it, for according to the expert's conclusions the
chimney was in no immediate danger.

Other mill-owners then began to examine their chimneys, and for many