Beattie had not forgotten that on him devolved the responsibility of Alec Lindsay’s defence. Thinking it wise to take time by the forelock, he went down to the Temple on the afternoon of the day after the will was read, and made his way to the chambers of Mr. Abel Corker. Mr. Corker’s practice lay chiefly in the Bankruptcy Court, but he had seen a good deal of criminal business in his time, and Mr. Beattie was satisfied that he could not intrust young Lindsay’s interests to more capable hands than his. Passing through a very narrow lane, the lawyer’s clerk turned into a doorway in an old building, the bricks of which were black with soot. The sides of the doorway were adorned with fifty or sixty names belonging to men learned in the law. Glancing at these to assure himself of being right, Beattie ascended a dark old-fashioned staircase, till he reached the third floor, and stopped at a door embellished with half a dozen names in black letters, and a small knocker. Mr. Beattie had no sooner rapped than the door was suddenly opened by a small boy who precipitated himself into the aperture, as if determined to block the way until due cause for admittance had been shown. ‘Can I see Mr. Corker? I want a consultation,’ said the visitor, plunging his hand into his trousers-pocket. Without speaking a word, the boy led the way into a corner of the passage, boxed off so as to form a clerk’s room. This cheerful apartment contained a table and a gas-jet; and the boy watched the stranger in silence as he deposited the regulation sum, one pound six shillings, upon the table. Then, still without uttering a syllable, he went into the passage, and pulled open a door. Mr. Corker had just come across the street from the Law Courts and had not yet divested himself of his wig and gown. He was standing with his back to the fire, his gown carefully tucked under one arm to save it from being scorched--a needless precaution, as no scorching could make it browner than it was already. His wig, very black, and very much battered, was awry; and his bands looked as if he had forgotten to take them off when he went to bed the night before. Seeing his visitor, Mr. Corker grunted, left off stroking his chin, and held out two dirty fingers. Mr. Beattie bowed, totally ignoring the fingers, and seated himself without waiting for an invitation to do so. ‘I am managing clerk in the firm of Hatchett, Small, and Hatchett,’ he began; and went straight on with his story, telling, of course, only what was known to Mr. Hatchett and to Alec himself. Mr. Corker’s keen black eyes were turned full upon the speaker; and as he concluded a benevolent grin overspread the old barrister’s sallow features. ‘Very neat--very pretty--very pretty _indeed_,’ he said. ‘This Mr. Lindsay must be a young man of ability. It was not expected, I suppose, that the Scotch minister should be present at the reading of the will?’ ‘I should think not,’ said Mr. Beattie, with a smile.