On that Sunday afternoon, at about two o'clock, Carlton Brand went down from his room to the office of the hotel, to exchange a few words with the clerk, and to secure one of the battle-extras which he had just heard from his window cried in the street. Knots of men, guests, or passers-by, driven in by the pouring rain without, filled the long hall, every third holding a newspaper, every group in more or less animated conversation, and the one topic that great conflict which had just bloomed out into a great victory. The lawyer seemed to have company enough in his own thoughts, and did not join any of the groups. He secured his extra, transacted his brief business at the desk, and returned immediately upstairs. The moment after he had left the desk, a young man advanced from one of the groups near the door, asked a question of the clerk, was answered, overran a few pages of the register with eye and finger, and then passed upstairs under the guidance of a servant. Carlton Brand had already thrown off coat and boots again, and was sitting at the open window in dressing-gown and slippers, glancing over the sensation-headings of the extra which gave the particulars of the Waterloo of Secessia,--when there was a tap at the door. Stepping hastily thither and opening it, with a muttered wonder why he could not be left alone to his reading, a well-known figure stepped into the room and one of his Philadelphia bar-intimates--perhaps the nearest to a confidential friend in the whole profession, took him by the hand. For an instant the occupant of the room seemed to be displeased at the intrusion and an expression of annoyance flitted over his face; but old friendship was evidently too powerful even for shame and lacerated feeling, and the next instant he had cordially returned the grasp.