diagnostic peculiarity, that the huge brass plates upon the small and highly coloured doors bore only the first names of ladies—­Norah or Lily or Florence; traversed China Town, where it was doubtless undermined with opium cellars, and its blocks pierced, after the similitude of rabbit-warrens, with a hundred doors and passages and galleries; enjoyed a glimpse of high publicity at the corner of Kearney; and proceeded, among dives and warehouses, towards the City Front and the region of the water-rats.  In this last stage of its career, where it was both grimy and solitary, and alternately quiet and roaring to the wheels of drays, we found a certain house of some pretension to neatness, and furnished with a rustic outside stair.  On the pillar of the stair a black plate bore in gilded lettering this device:  “Harry D. Bellairs, Attorney-at-law.  Consultations, 9 to 6.”  On ascending the stairs, a door was found to stand open on the balcony, with this further inscription, “Mr. Bellairs In.”

“I wonder what we do next,” said I.

“Guess we sail right in,” returned Jim, and suited the action to the word.

The room in which we found ourselves was clean, but extremely bare.  A rather old-fashioned secretaire stood by the wall, with a chair drawn to the desk; in one corner was a shelf with half-a-dozen law books; and I can remember literally not another stick of furniture.  One inference imposed itself:  Mr. Bellairs was in the habit of sitting down himself and suffering his clients to stand.  At the far end, and veiled by a curtain of red baize, a second door communicated with the interior of the house.  Hence, after some coughing and stamping, we elicited the shyster, who came timorously forth, for all the world like a man in fear of bodily assault, and then, recognising his guests, suffered from what I can only call a nervous paroxysm of courtesy.

“Mr. Pinkerton and partner!” said he.  “I will go and fetch you seats.”

“Not the least,” said Jim.  “No time.  Much rather stand.  This is business, Mr. Bellairs.  This morning, as you know, I bought the wreck, Flying Scud.”

The lawyer nodded.

“And bought her,” pursued my friend, “at a figure out of all proportion to the cargo and the circumstances, as they appeared?”

“And now you think better of it, and would like to be off with your bargain?  I have been figuring upon this,” returned the lawyer.  “My client, I will not hide from you, was displeased with me for putting her so high.  I think we were both too heated, Mr. Pinkerton:  rivalry—­the spirit of competition.  But I will be quite frank—­I know when I am dealing with gentlemen—­and I am almost certain, if you leave the matter in my hands, my client would relieve you of the bargain, so as you would lose”—­he consulted our faces with gimlet-eyed calculation—­“nothing,” he added shrilly.

And here Pinkerton amazed me.