Mr. Chaytor's chambers in Lincoln's Inn were high up, and very small and inconvenient--"Chaytor's sky parlour," some of his friends called it, for in reality it consisted of only one room and a good-sized cupboard; but the view of chimney-pots from the window was certainly unique. To be sure, it was somewhat cold in winter, and at times the chimney was given to smoking, and in summer it certainly resembled the Black Hole in Calcutta; but these were trifles to be borne stoically, if not cheerfully. In this den Thorold Chaytor did most of his literary work, and waited for briefs; nor did he wait wholly in vain. Althea had spoken of him as a poor man, and this opinion was shared by many others. When old friends of the family, who had visited at the old Manor House, came down to the dull, shabby-looking house in High Street, where Thorold and his sister lived, they used to sigh and shrug their shoulders. "It was grievous," they would say. "No wonder poor Joanna looked so old and careworn! And they only kept one servant, too;" and then they would talk, under their breath, of the wasteful extravagance at the old Manor House, and then of that racing establishment at Newmarket, to which the Chaytor fortunes had been sacrificed. But if Thorold and Joanna practised rigid economy, and only kept one servant, it was because they stinted themselves of their own free-will. Thorold Chaytor was not really poor; his literary work was successful, and his papers on social questions were so brilliant and versatile, so teeming with thought and sparkles of wit, that he was already making his mark as a clever writer. And in his own profession he was not doing so badly. Quite recently he had distinguished himself in some case. "Chaytor is a clear-headed lawyer; he is sharp and has plenty of brains," his friends would say; "he will get on right enough, if he does not kill himself with work first." Thorold loved his work. The hours spent in that grimy den were full of enjoyment to him; he was equally happy solving some legal problem or doing some of his journalistic work; his clear, strong brains delighted in labour. He had one curious companion of his solitude--a small, yellow cat, who had only three legs, whom he had rescued from a violent death, and who refused to leave him. Sisera was not an attractive animal, but his heart was in the right place; he adored his master, and when Thorold's step sounded on the stairs in the morning, Sisera would jump off the old coat on the shelf, where he was accustomed to pass the night, and limp with loud purrs to the door. Sisera was as much a hermit as his master; he took his exercise among the chimney-pots, and never went downstairs, where unseen enemies lurked unnumbered for him. He had his pennyworth of milk, and his skewer of cats' meat, and a share of his master's frugal luncheon; and on Sundays the fat old housekeeper toiled up the stairs and deposited the rations for the day, grumbling as she did so.