"Mr. Bellairs In."

"I wonder what we do next," said I.

"Guess we sail right in," returned Jim, and suited the action to the

word.

The room in which we found ourselves was clean, but extremely bare. A

rather old-fashioned secretaire stood by the wall, with a chair drawn to

the desk; in one corner was a shelf with half-a-dozen law books; and

I can remember literally not another stick of furniture. One inference

imposed itself: Mr. Bellairs was in the habit of sitting down himself

and suffering his clients to stand. At the far end, and veiled by a

curtain of red baize, a second door communicated with the interior of

the house. Hence, after some coughing and stamping, we elicited the

shyster, who came timorously forth, for all the world like a man in fear

of bodily assault, and then, recognising his guests, suffered from what

I can only call a nervous paroxysm of courtesy.

"Mr. Pinkerton and partner!" said he. "I will go and fetch you seats."

"Not the least," said Jim. "No time. Much rather stand. This is

business, Mr. Bellairs. This morning, as you know, I bought the wreck,

Flying Scud."

The lawyer nodded.

"And bought her," pursued my friend, "at a figure out of all proportion

to the cargo and the circumstances, as they appeared?"

"And now you think better of it, and would like to be off with your

bargain? I have been figuring upon this," returned the lawyer. "My

client, I will not hide from you, was displeased with me for putting her

so high. I think we were both too heated, Mr. Pinkerton: rivalry--the

spirit of competition. But I will be quite frank--I know when I am

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