“What’s his address?”
Morton jerked his head towards the directories in the bookshelf.
“Find him there,” he said. “I’ll give you an introduction if you want it. Though, mind you, I think he talks as much rot as anyone—”
“What does he say?”
“Lord!—I don’t know. Some theory or other. But, at any rate, he’s given it up.”
Laurie pursed his lips.
“I daresay I’ll ask you some time,” he said. “Meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile, for the Lord’s sake, get on with that business you’ve got there.”
Mr. Morton was indeed, as Laurie had reflected, extraordinarily uninterested in things outside his beat; and his beat was not a very extended one. He was a quite admirable barrister, competent, alert, merciless and kindly at the proper times, and, while at his business, thought of hardly anything else at all. And when he was not at his business, he threw himself with equal zest into two or three other occupations—golf, dining out, and the collection of a particular kind of chairs. Beyond these things there was for him really nothing of value.
But, owing to circumstances, his beat had been further extended to include Laurie Baxter, whom he was beginning to like extremely. There was an air of romance about Laurie, a pleasant enthusiasm, excellent manners, and a rather delightful faculty of hero-worship. Mr. Morton himself, too, while possessing nothing even resembling a religion, was, like many other people, not altogether unattracted towards those who had, though he thought religiousness to be a sign of a slightly