At the end of the room, close by the window, which only allowed about four hours of daylight to enter it, stood a table crowded with papers, presenting that appearance which ladies generally call "a litter." The table and book-shelf, filled with heavy-looking volumes, would give one the impression that the room belonged to a barrister or a literary man, if it were not for a set of boxing-gloves and a pair of fencing foils, which hung over the fireplace, and the prints of ballet-girls and famous actresses which adorned the walls. As Jack entered the room, a man, who was sitting at the table, turned his head, and peering through the gloom which a single candle only served to emphasize, exclaimed: "Jack, is that you?" The speaker was the Leonard Dagle whose name appeared conjointly with Jack's on the door of the chambers. Seen by the light of the single candle, Leonard Dagle looked handsome; it was left for the daylight to reveal the traces which life's battle had cut in his regular features. One had only to glance at the face to be reminded of the old saying of the sword wearing the scabbard. It was the face of a man who had fought the hard fight of one hand against the world, and had not yet won the victory. Leonard Dagle was Jack's old chum; friends he had in plenty--dangerous friends many of them--but Leonard was his brother and companion in arms. They had shared the same rooms, the same tankard of bitter, sometimes the same crust, for years. There was not a secret between them. Either would have given the other his last penny and felt grateful for the acceptance of it. It was a singular friendship, for no two men could be more unlike than Leonard Dagle, the hard-working barrister, and Jack Newcombe, the spendthrift, the ne'er-do-well, and--the Savage. "Is that you, Jack?" exclaimed Leonard, straightening his back. "Home already?" "Yes, I'm back." "What's the matter--tired?" "Tired--bored--humbled--thoroughly used up! I've got news for you, Len." "Bad or good?" "Bad as they can be. First the squire's dead!" "Dead?" "Yes, dead and buried. Poor old fellow!" "I am very sorry. Then you--then you--am I addressing the Squire of Hurst Leigh?" "You are addressing the pauper of Spider Court." "Jack, what do you mean?" "I mean that the poor old fellow has died and left me nothing--not even a mourning-ring." "I'm very sorry. Left you nothing, my dear old man!" "Don't pity me. I can't stand that. Say serves you right, say anything. After all, what did I deserve?" "But you expected something," said Leonard. "Yes, and no. I expected nothing till I got there, and then did. I saw him for a few minutes before he died, and he said--certainly said--that I--well, that there would be something for me." "And there is nothing." "Not a stiver. Mind I don't complain, Len. I didn't deserve it." "Where has it all gone? He was a rich man, was he not?" asked Leonard. "Rich as a Croesus," replied Jack, "and it has all gone to Stephen Davenant."