“It can’t be possible, Toll.  I must look at your horse.  I’d no idea you had such an animal.”

Then Mr. Belcher got out, and looked the horse over.  He was a connoisseur, and he stood five minutes on the curb-stone, expatiating upon those points of the animal that pleased him.

“I believe you came to see Mr. Cavendish,” suggested Talbot with a laugh.

“Yes, I suppose I must go up.  I hate lawyers, anyway.”

They climbed the stairway.  They knocked at Mr. Cavendish’s door.  A boy opened it, and took in their cards.  Mr. Cavendish was busy, but would see them in fifteen minutes.  Mr. Belcher sat down in the ante-room, took a newspaper from his pocket, and began to read.  Then he took a pen and scribbled, writing his own name with three other names, across which he nervously drew his pen.  Then he drew forth his knife, and tremblingly dressed his finger-nails.  Having completed this task, he took out a large pocket-book, withdrew a blank check, filled and signed it, and put it back.  Realizing, at last, that Talbot was waiting to go in with him, he said: 

“By the way, Toll, this business of mine is private.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Talbot; “I’m only going in to make sure that Cavendish remembers you.”

What Talbot really wished to make sure of was, that Cavendish should know that he had brought him his client.

At last they heard a little bell which summoned the boy, who soon returned to say that Mr. Cavendish would see them.  Mr. Belcher looked around for a mirror, but discovering none, said: 

“Toll, look at me!  Am I all right?  Do you see anything out of the way?”

Talbot having looked him over, and reported favorably they followed the boy into the penetralia of the great office, and into the presence of the great man.  Mr. Cavendish did not rise, but leaned back in his huge, carved chair, and rubbed his hands, pale in their morning whiteness, and said, coldly: 

“Good morning, gentlemen; sit down.”

Mr. Talbot declined.  He had simply brought to him his friend, General Belcher, who, he believed, had a matter of business to propose.  Then, telling Mr. Belcher that he should leave the coupe at his service, he retired.

Mr. Belcher felt that he was already in court.  Mr. Cavendish sat behind his desk in a judicial attitude, with his new client fronting him.  The latter fell, or tried to force himself, into a jocular mood and bearing, according to his custom on serious occasions.

“I am likely to have a little scrimmage,” said he, “and I shall want your help, Mr. Cavendish.”

Saying this, he drew forth a check for a thousand dollars, which he had drawn in the ante-room, and passed it over to the lawyer.  Mr. Cavendish took it up listlessly, held it by its two ends, read its face, examined its back, and tossed it into a drawer, as if it were a suspicious sixpence.

“It’s a thousand dollars,” said Mr. Belcher, surprised that the sum had apparently made no impression.