The rooms of Mr. James Morton were conveniently situated up four flights of stairs in one of those blocks of buildings, so mysterious to the layman, that lie not a very long way from Charing Cross. There is a silence always here as of college life, and the place is frequented by the same curious selections from the human race as haunt University courts. Here are to be seen cooks, aged and dignified men, errand-boys, and rather shabby old women. The interior of the rooms, too, is not unlike that of an ordinary rather second-rate college; and Mr. James Morton's taste did not redeem the chambers in which he sat. From roof to floor the particular apartment in which he sat was lined with bookshelves filled with unprepossessing volumes and large black tin boxes. A large table stood in the middle of the room, littered with papers, with bulwarks of the same kind of tin boxes rising at either end. Mr. Morton himself was a square-built man of some forty years, clean-shaven, and rather pale and stout, with strongly marked features, a good loud voice, and the pleasant, brusque manners that befit a University and public school man who has taken seriously to business. Laurie and he got on excellently together. The younger man had an admiration for the older, whose reputation as a rather distinguished barrister certainly deserved it, and was sufficiently in awe of him to pay attention to his directions in all matters connected with law. But they did not meet much on other planes. Laurie had asked the other down to Stantons once, and had dined with him three or four times in return. And there their acquaintance found its limitations. This morning, however, the boy's interested air, with its hints of suppressed excitement and his marked inattention to the books and papers which were his business, at last caused the older man to make a remark. It was in his best manner. "What's the matter, eh?" he suddenly shot at him, without prelude of any kind. Laurie's attention came back with a jump, and he flushed a little. "Oh!--er--nothing particular," he murmured. And he set himself down to his books again in silence, conscious of the watchful roving eye on the other side of the table. About half-past twelve Mr. Morton shut his own book with a slap, leaned back, and began to fill his pipe. "Nothing seems very important," he said. As the last uttered word had been spoken an hour previously, Laurie was bewildered, and looked it. "It won't do, Baxter," went on the other. "You haven't turned a page an hour this morning." Laurie smiled doubtfully, and leaned back too. Then he had a spasm of confidence. "Yes. I'm rather upset this morning," he said. "The fact is, last night..." Mr. Morton waited. "Well?" he said. "Oh! don't tell if me you don't want to." Laurie looked at him. "I wonder what you'd say," he said at last. The other got up with an abrupt movement, pushed his books together, selected a hat, and put it on.