“Why not! Man, is that the way you do in the east country? He’s only a clerk, and everybody knows you Edinburgh folk are as proud as proud can be. Would you ask your clerk to dine with you?” “I don’t possess such an appendage, Sir John,” said the briefless barrister, “except it be a little scrubby boy like what you were the last time I was west here--and he certainly would need some brushing up. So he’s not a gentleman, this wit of yours? He would not be presentable in the drawing-room?” “Hum! I don’t know,” said honest John, hesitating. “He looks quite as well as Dick or Alick, or that Liverpool man there.” The lad drew himself up and arranged his neckcloth complacently. “There’s handsomer men, to be sure; but I think Muir’s better looking than any of you, Cuthbert.” Charteris laughed: “Is he not well-bred, then?” “Oh yes, he can behave himself well enough. He’s got a way of his own, you know; but then he’s a clerk.” “And so are you, Jack, my man,” said Charteris. “Oh yes, but there’s a difference. He’s got no money--and more than that,” said the juvenile merchant, “he’s got no enterprise, Cuthbert. There’s Alick, he had a share in a plan, sending out a lot of things to San Francisco on a venture, just when the news came about the gold, you know, and he cleared a hundred pounds; that’s the way to do. But then, that fellow Muir, he never tries a thing; and worse than that, he went away and married somebody last year, and he had three sisters before, and them all living with him. Just think of that. Four women all dragging a young man down when he might be rising in the world. Isn’t it awful?” “A very serious burden,” said Charteris, smiling, “but what is his salary, John?” “His salary’s sixty pounds; my father gives very good salaries. He’s just a clerk, you know. The cashier has two hundred.” “Sixty pounds! and five people live on sixty pounds!” said the lawyer. “And they’ve got a baby,” said John, solemnly. It was the climax; there was no more said. The respectable firm of George Buchanan and Sons had its office in a dingy business street near the Exchange. The early darkness of the February night had almost blotted out the high sombre houses opposite, except for the gleaming gas-light streaming from office windows in irregular patches from garret to basement. It was not a very busy time, and at five o’clock the clerks were preparing to leave the office. “I say, Muir,” cried Richard Buchanan, bursting in hastily, “come and dine with us.” Charteris was behind. The famous Harry Muir was certainly handsome--very much better looking than any other of the party, and had a fine, sparkling, joyous, intelligent face--but the lines of it had everything in them but firmness. “Not to-night,” said the clerk, “you must not ask me to-night.”