Mr. Cardus did not make his way straight to the office. He struck off to the right, and entered the long line of glass-houses, walking up from house to house, till he reached the partition where the temperate sort were placed to bloom, and which was connected with his office by a glass door. Through this last he walked softly, with a cat-like step, till he reached the door, where he paused to observe a large coarse man, who was standing at the far end of the room, looking out intently on the courtyard. “Ah, my friend,” he said to himself, “so the shoe is beginning to pinch. Well, it is time.” Then he pushed the door softly open, passed into the room with the same cat-like step, closed it, and, seating himself at his writing-table, took up a pen. Apparently the coarse-looking man at the window was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to hear him, for he still stood staring into space. “Well, Mr. de Talor,” said the lawyer presently, in his soft, jerky voice, “I am at your service.” The person addressed started violently, and turned sharply round. “Good ’eavens, Cardus, how did you get in?” “Through the door, of course; do you suppose I came down the chimney?” “It’s very strange, Cardus, but I never ’eard you come. You’ve given me quite a start.” Mr. Cardus laughed, a hard, little laugh. “You were too much occupied with your own thoughts, Mr. de Talor. I fear that they are not pleasant ones. Can I help you?” “How do you know that my thoughts are not pleasant, Cardus? I never said so.” “If we lawyers waited for our clients to tell us all their thoughts, Mr. de Talor, it would often take us a long time to reach the truth. We have to read their faces, or even their backs sometimes. You have no idea of how much expression a back is capable, if you make such things your study; yours, for instance, looks very uncomfortable to-day: nothing gone wrong, I hope?” “No, Cardus, no,” answered Mr. de Talor, dropping the subject of backs, which was, he felt, beyond him; “that is, nothing much, merely a question of business, on which I have come to ask your advice as a shrewd man.” “My best advice is at your service, Mr. de Talor: what is it?” “Well, Cardus, it’s this.” And Mr. de Talor seated his portly frame in an easy-chair, and turned his broad, vulgar face towards the lawyer. “It’s about the railway-grease business—” “Which you own up in Manchester?” “Yes, that’s it.” “Well, then, it ought to be a satisfactory subject to talk of. It pays hand over fist, does it not?” “No, Cardus, that is just the point: it did pay, it don’t now.” “How’s that?” “Well, you see, when my father took out the patent, and started the business, his ’ouse was the only ’ouse in the market, and he made a pot, and, I don’t mind telling you, I’ve made a pot too; but now, what do you think?—there’s a beggarly firm called Rastrick & Codley that took out a new patent last year, and is underselling us with a better stuff at a cheaper price than we can turn it out at.”