Thorndyke and I sat down opposite the lawyer and his client, and we mutually inspected one another.  Marchmont I already knew; an elderly, professional-looking man, a typical solicitor of the old school; fresh-faced, precise, rather irascible, and conveying a not unpleasant impression of taking a reasonable interest in his diet.  The other man was quite young, not more than five-and-twenty, and was a fine athletic-looking fellow with a healthy, out-of-door complexion and an intelligent and highly prepossessing face.  I took a liking to him at the first glance, and so, I saw, did Thorndyke.

“You two gentlemen,” said Blackmore, addressing us, “seem to be quite old acquaintances.  I have heard so much about you from my friend, Reuben Hornby.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Marchmont, “that was a queer case—­’The Case of the Red Thumb Mark,’ as the papers called it.  It was an eye-opener to old-fashioned lawyers like myself.  We’ve had scientific witnesses before—­and bullied ’em properly, by Jove! when they wouldn’t give the evidence that we wanted.  But the scientific lawyer is something new.  His appearance in court made us all sit up, I can assure you.”

“I hope we shall make you sit up again,” said Thorndyke.

“You won’t this time,” said Marchmont.  “The issues in this case of my friend Blackmore’s are purely legal; or rather, there are no issues at all.  There is nothing in dispute.  I tried to prevent Blackmore from consulting you, but he wouldn’t listen to reason.  Here!  Waiter!  How much longer are we to be waiters?  We shall die of old age before we get our victuals!”

The waiter smiled apologetically.  “Yessir!” said he.  “Coming now, sir.”  And at this very moment there was borne into the room a Gargantuan pudding in a great bucket of a basin, which being placed on a three-legged stool was forthwith attacked ferociously by the white-clothed, white-capped carver.  We watched the process—­as did every one present—­with an interest not entirely gluttonous, for it added a pleasant touch to the picturesque old room, with its sanded floor, its homely, pew-like boxes, its high-backed settles and the friendly portrait of the “great lexicographer” that beamed down on us from the wall.

“This is a very different affair from your great, glittering modern restaurant,” Mr. Marchmont remarked.

“It is indeed,” said Blackmore, “and if this is the way in which our ancestors lived, it would seem that they had a better idea of comfort than we have.”

There was a short pause, during which Mr. Marchmont glared hungrily at the pudding; then Thorndyke said: 

“So you refused to listen to reason, Mr. Blackmore?”

“Yes.  You see, Mr. Marchmont and his partner had gone into the matter and decided that there was nothing to be done.  Then I happened to mention the affair to Reuben Hornby, and he urged me to ask your advice on the case.”

“Like his impudence,” growled Marchmont, “to meddle with my client.”