The closed carriage appeared no more; nor did any whisper either of good or evil reach me in connection with the mysterious house from which it had come. Mr. Graves had apparently gone out of my life forever.
But if he had gone out of my life, he had not gone out of my memory. Often, as I walked my rounds, would the picture of that dimly-lit room rise unbidden. Often would I find myself looking once more into that ghastly face, so worn, so wasted and haggard, and yet so far from repellent. All the incidents of that last night would reconstitute themselves with a vividness that showed the intensity of the impression that they had made at the time. I would have gladly forgotten the whole affair, for every incident of it was fraught with discomfort. But it clung to my memory; it haunted me; and ever as it returned it bore with it the disquieting questions: Was Mr. Graves still alive? And, if he was not, was there really nothing which could have been done to save him?
Nearly a month passed before the practice began to show signs of returning to its normal condition. Then the daily lists became more and more contracted and the day’s work proportionately shorter. And thus the term of my servitude came to an end. One evening, as we were writing up the daybook, Stillbury remarked:
“I almost think, Jervis, I could manage by myself now. I know you are only staying on for my sake.”
“I am staying on to finish my engagement, but I shan’t be sorry to clear out if you can do without me.”
“I think I can. When would you like to be off?”
“As soon as possible. Say tomorrow morning, after I have made a few visits and transferred the patients to you.”
“Very well,” said Stillbury. “Then I will give you your cheque and settle up everything tonight, so that you shall be free to go off when you like tomorrow morning.”
Thus ended my connection with Kennington Lane. On the following day at about noon, I found myself strolling across Waterloo Bridge with the sensations of a newly liberated convict and a cheque for twenty-five guineas in my pocket. My luggage was to follow when I sent for it. Now, unhampered even by a handbag, I joyfully descended the steps at the north end of the bridge and headed for King’s Bench Walk by way of the Embankment and Middle Temple Lane.
V
Jeffrey Blackmore’s Will
My arrival at Thorndyke’s chambers was not unexpected, having been heralded by a premonitory postcard. The “oak” was open and an application of the little brass knocker of the inner door immediately produced my colleague himself and a very hearty welcome.
“At last,” said Thorndyke, “you have come forth from the house of bondage. I began to think that you had taken up your abode in Kennington for good.”
“I was beginning, myself, to wonder when I should escape. But here I am; and I may say at once that I am ready to shake the dust of general practice off my feet forever—that is, if you are still willing to have me as your assistant.”
“Willing!” exclaimed Thorndyke, “Barkis himself was not more willing than I. You will be invaluable to me. Let us settle the terms of our comradeship forthwith, and tomorrow we will take measures to enter you as a student of the Inner Temple. Shall we have our talk in the open air and the spring sunshine?”
I agreed readily to this proposal, for it was a bright, sunny day and warm for the time of year—the beginning of April. We descended to the Walk and thence slowly made our way to the quiet court behind the church, where poor old Oliver Goldsmith lies, as he would surely have wished to lie, in the midst of all that had been dear to him in his chequered life. I need not record the matter of our conversation. To Thorndyke’s proposals I had no objections to offer but my own unworthiness and his excessive liberality. A few minutes saw our covenants fully agreed upon, and when Thorndyke had noted the points on a slip of paper, signed and dated it and handed it to me, the business was at an end.
“There,” my colleague said with a smile as he put away his pocketbook, “if people would only settle their affairs in that way, a good part of the occupation of lawyers would be gone. Brevity is the soul of wit; and the fear of simplicity is the beginning of litigation.”
“And now,” I said, “I propose that we go and feed. I will invite you to lunch to celebrate our contract.”
“My learned junior is premature,” he replied. “I had already arranged a little festivity—or rather had modified one that was already arranged. You remember Mr. Marchmont, the solicitor?”
“Yes.”
“He called this morning to ask me to lunch with him and a new client at the ‘Cheshire Cheese.’ I accepted and notified him that I should bring you.”
“Why the ‘Cheshire Cheese’?” I asked.
“Why not? Marchmont’s reasons for the selection were, first, that his client has never seen an old-fashioned London tavern, and second, that this is Wednesday and he, Marchmont, has a gluttonous affection for a really fine beefsteak pudding. You don’t object, I hope?”
“Oh, not at all. In fact, now that you mention it, my own sensations incline me to sympathize with Marchmont. I breakfasted rather early.”
“Then come,” said Thorndyke. “The assignation is for one o’clock, and, if we walk slowly, we shall just hit it off.”
We sauntered up Inner Temple Lane, and, crossing Fleet Street, headed sedately for the tavern. As we entered the quaint old-world dining-room, Thorndyke looked round and a gentleman, who was seated with a companion at a table in one of the little boxes or compartments, rose and
