taste; he was a survival of the mediaeval age--he took life too
gravely, and gave himself the airs of a patriarch.

In person he was a thin spare man, somewhat sallow, and with dark
melancholy eyes that were full of intelligence. When he smiled,
which he did more rarely than most people, he looked at least ten
years younger.

In reality he was nearly thirty, but he never measured his age by
years. "I have not had my innings yet," he would say; "I am going to
renew my youth presently; I mean to have my harvest of good things
like other fellows, and eat, drink, and be merry;" but from all
appearance the time had not come yet.

Malcolm Herrick's chambers were in Lincoln's Inn. Thither he was
turning his footsteps one sultry July afternoon, when as usual he
paused at a certain point, while a smile of pleasure stole to his
lips.

Familiarity had not yet dulled the edge of his enjoyment; now, as
ever, it soothed and tranquillised him to turn from the noisy
crowded streets into this quiet spot with its gray old buildings,
its patch of grass, and the broad wide steps up and down which men,
hurrying silently, passed and repassed intent on the day's work.

As usual at this hour, the flagged court was crowded by pigeons,
strutting fearlessly between the feet of the passers-by, and filling
the air with their soft cooing voices.

"Ah, my friend the cobbler," he said to himself, and he moved a