“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “come over to the Temple with me and I will give you a cup of coffee to clear your brain. Are there any documents?”

“I have all the papers here in my bag,” replied Marchmont; and the conversation⁠—such conversation as is possible “when beards wag all” over the festive board⁠—drifted into other channels.

As soon as the meal was finished and the reckoning paid, we trooped out of Wine Office Court, and, insinuating ourselves through the line of empty hansoms that, in those days, crawled in a continuous procession on either side of Fleet Street, betook ourselves by way of Mitre Court to King’s Bench Walk. There, when the coffee had been requisitioned and our chairs drawn up around the fire, Mr. Marchmont unloaded from his bag a portentous bundle of papers, and we addressed ourselves to the business in hand.