Mr Slow was a grey-haired old man, nearer eighty than seventy, who, with the exception of a fortnight’s holiday every year which he always spent at Margate, had attended those same chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields daily for the last sixty years. He was a stout, thickset man, very leisurely in all his motions, who walked slowly, talked slowly, read slowly, wrote slowly, and thought slowly; but who, nevertheless, had the reputation of doing a great deal of business, and doing it very well. He had a partner in the business, almost as old as himself, named Bideawhile; and they who knew them both used to speculate which of the two was the most leisurely. It was, however, generally felt that, though Mr Slow was the slowest in his speech, Mr Bideawhile was the longest in getting anything said. Mr Slow would often beguile his time with unnecessary remarks; but Mr Bideawhile was so constant in beguiling his time, that men wondered how, in truth, he ever did anything at all. Of both of them it may be said that no men stood higher in their profession, and that Mr Ball’s suspicions, had they been known in the neighbourhood of Lincoln’s Inn, would have been scouted as utterly baseless. And, for the comfort of my readers, let me assure them that they were utterly baseless. There might, perhaps, have been a little vanity about Mr Slow as to the names of his aristocratic clients; but he was an honest, painstaking man, who had ever done his duty well by those who had employed him.

Is it not remarkable that the common repute which we all give to attorneys in the general is exactly opposite to that which every man gives to his own attorney in particular? Whom does anybody trust so implicitly as he trusts his own attorney? And yet is it not the case that the body of attorneys is supposed to be the most roguish body in existence?

The old man seemed now to be a little fretful, and said something more about his sorrow at their having been sent into that room.

“We are so crowded,” he said, “that we hardly know how to stir ourselves.”

Miss Mackenzie said it did not signify in the least. Mr Ball said nothing, but seated himself with his chin again resting on his umbrella.

“I was so sorry to see in the papers an account of your brother’s death,” said Mr Slow.

“Yes, Mr Slow; he has gone, and left a wife and very large family.”

“I hope they are provided for, Miss Mackenzie.”

“No, indeed; they are not provided for at all. My brother had not been fortunate in business.”

“And yet he went into it with a large capital,—with a large capital in such a business as that.”

John Ball, with his chin on the umbrella, said nothing. He said nothing, but he winced as he thought whence the capital had come. And he thought, too, of those much-meaning words: “Jonathan Ball to John Ball, junior—Deed of gift.”