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 doors with clerks behind them, yet in so doing betrayed neither sign of haste nor discomposure. At the bottom of the last flight he was accosted by an elderly lame man, who bore unmistakable traces of being the clerk of an attorney.

"Can you tell me if Mr. Northcote's chambers are on the top floor, sir?" he asked courteously.

"My name is Northcote. Can I be of service to you?"

The clerk opened a small bag that he carried, and selecting an oblong piece of paper from among half a dozen similar documents lying within it, handed it to the advocate.

"Messrs. Peberdy, Ward, and Peberdy, No. 3 Shortt's Yard, sir," he said.

"Thanks," said Northcote, placing it in the inner pocket of his overcoat.

At that moment a clerk from one of the upper stories came running down the stairs.

"The place is on fire," he cried. "The top landing is so full of smoke you can't go up to it."

"I thought there was a smell of burning," said Northcote. "I say, it must be my room!"

"If you are Mr. Northcote, it is certainly your room."

The advocate turned round hastily, and proceeded to ascend the steep and rickety old stairs. He was turned back, however, as he had anticipated, by other clerks who were running down.

"The place is on fire," they cried excitedly. "The smoke will choke you."