“Do you know where Mr. Traddles lives in the Inn?” I asked the waiter, as I warmed myself by the coffee room fire.

“Holborn Court, sir. Number two.”

“ Mr. Traddles has a rising reputation among the lawyers, I believe?” said I.

“Well, sir,” returned the waiter, “probably he has, sir; but I am not aware of it myself.”

This waiter, who was middle-aged and spare, looked for help to a waiter of more authority⁠—a stout, potential old man, with a double chin, in black breeches and stockings, who came out of a place like a churchwarden’s pew, at the end of the coffee room, where he kept company with a cashbox, a Directory, a Law-list, and other books and papers.