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.
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