One evening, as I sat consuming with little appetite my solitary supper, there fell on me a sudden sense of loneliness. The desire that I had hitherto felt to be alone with my own miserable reflections gave place to a yearning for human companionship. That, indeed, which I craved for most was forbidden, and I must abide by my lady’s wishes; but there were my friends in the Temple. It was more than a week since I had seen them; in fact, we had not met since the morning of that unhappiest day of my life. They would be wondering what had become of me. I rose from the table, and having filled my pouch from a tin of tobacco, set forth for King’s Bench Walk.
As I approached the entry of No. 5A in the gathering darkness I met Thorndyke himself emerging encumbered with two deck-chairs, a reading-lantern, and a book.
“Why, Berkeley!” he exclaimed, “is it indeed thou? We have been wondering what had become of you.”
“It is a long time since I looked you up,” I admitted.
He scrutinized me attentively by the light of the entry lamp, and then remarked: “Fetter Lane doesn’t seem to be agreeing with you very well, my son. You are looking quite thin and peaky.”
“Well, I’ve nearly done with it. Barnard will be back in about ten days. His ship is putting in at Madeira to coal and take in some cargo, and then he is coming home. Where are you going with those chairs?”
“I am going to sit down at the end of the Walk by the railings. It’s cooler there than indoors. If you will wait a moment I will go and fetch another chair for Jervis, though he won’t be back for a little while.” He ran up the stairs, and presently returned with a third chair, and we carried our impedimenta down to the quiet corner of the Walk.
“So your term of servitude is coming to an end,” said he, when we had placed the chairs and hung the lantern on the railings. “Any other news?”
“No. Have you any?”
“I am afraid I have not. All my inquiries have yielded negative results. There is, of course, a considerable body of evidence, and it all seems to point one way. But I am unwilling to make a decisive move without something more definite. I am really waiting for confirmation or otherwise of my ideas on the subject; for some new item of evidence.”
“I didn’t know there was any evidence.”
“Didn’t you?” said Thorndyke. “But you know as much as I know. You have all the essential facts; but apparently you haven’t collated them and extracted their meaning. If you had, you would have found them curiously significant.”
“I suppose I mustn’t ask what their significance is?”
“No, I think not. When I am conducting a case I mention my surmises to nobody—not even to Jervis. Then I can say confidently that there has been no leakage. Don’t think I distrust you. Remember that my thoughts are my client’s property, and that the essence of strategy is to keep the enemy in the dark.”
“Yes, I see that. Of course I ought not to have asked.”
“You ought not to need to ask,” Thorndyke replied, with a smile; “you should put the facts together and reason from them yourself.”
While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke glance at me inquisitively from time to time. Now after an interval of silence, he asked suddenly:
“Is anything amiss, Berkeley? Are you worrying about your friends’ affairs?”
“No, not particularly; though their prospects don’t look very rosy.”
“Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look,” said he. “But I am afraid something is troubling you. All your gay spirits seem to have evaporated.” He paused for a few moments, and then added: “I don’t want to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you by advice or otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you are my academic offspring.”
Instinctively, with a man’s natural reticence, I began to mumble a half-articulate disclaimer; and then I stopped. After all, why should I not confide in him? He was a good man and a wise man, full of human sympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive in his professional capacity. And I wanted a friend badly just now.
“I’m afraid,” I began shyly, “it is not a matter that admits of much help, and it’s hardly the sort of thing that I ought to worry you by talking about—”
“If it is enough to make you unhappy, my dear fellow, it is enough to merit serious consideration by your friend; so if you don’t mind telling me—”
“Of course I don’t, sir!” I exclaimed.
“Then fire away; and don’t call me ‘sir.’ We are brother practitioners now.”
Thus encouraged, I poured out the story of my little romance; bashfully at first and with halting phrases, but later, with more freedom and confidence. He listened with grave attention, and once or twice put a question when my narrative became a little disconnected. When I had finished he laid his hand softly on my arm.
“You have had rough luck, Berkeley. I don’t wonder that you are miserable. I am more sorry than I can tell you.”
“Thank you,”
