of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.  On the way they exchanged a few insignificant remarks, having reference to a former intimacy and a period during which they had not come across each other.  Established in a semi-private room, with a modest stimulant to aid conversation, they became more at ease; Mr. Scawthorne allowed himself a discreet smile, and Joseph, fingering his glass, broached the matter at issue with a cautious question.

‘Do you know anything of a man called Snowdon?’

‘What Snowdon?’

’Joseph James Snowdon—­a friend of mine.  Your people advertised for him about three years ago.  Perhaps you haven’t been at the office as long as that?’

‘Oh yes.  I remember the name.  What about him?’

’Your people wanted to find him—­something to his advantage.  Do you happen to know whether it’s any use his coming forward now?’

Mr. Scawthorne was not distinguished by directness of gaze.  He had handsome features, and a not unpleasant cast of countenance, but something, possibly the habit of professional prudence, made his regard coldly, fitfully, absently observant.  It was markedly so as he turned his face towards Joseph whilst the latter was speaking.  After a moment’s silence he remarked, without emphasis: 

‘A relative of yours, you said?’

‘No, I said a friend—­intimate friend.  Polkenhorne knows him too.’

‘Does he?  I haven’t seen Polkenhorne for a long time.’

’You don’t care to talk about the business?  Perhaps you’d better introduce me to Mr. Percival.’

‘By the name of Camden?’

‘Hang it!  I may as well tell you at once.  Snowdon is my own name.’

‘Indeed?  And how am I to be sure of that?’

’Come and see me where I’m living, in Clerkenwell Close, and then make inquiries of my father, in Hanover Street, Islington.  There’s no reason now for keeping up the old name—­a little affair—­all put right.  But the fact is, I’d as soon find out what this business is with your office without my father knowing.  I have reasons; shouldn’t mind talking them over with you, if you can give me the information I want.’

‘I can do that,’ replied Scawthorne with a smile.  ’If you are J. J. Snowdon, you are requested to communicate with Michael Snowdon—­ that’s all.’

’Oh! but I have communicated with him, and he’s nothing particular to say to me, as far as I can see.’

Scawthorne sipped at his glass, gave a stroke to each side of his moustache, and seemed to reflect.

‘You were coming to ask Mr. Percival privately for information?’

’That’s just it.  Of course if you can’t give me any, I must see him to-morrow.’

‘He won’t tell you anything more than I have.’

‘And you don’t know anything more?’

’I didn’t say that, my dear fellow.  Suppose you begin by telling me a little more about yourself?’