ou that authority, Mr Chadwick?" asked
Bold.

"Only those who employ me, Mr Bold," said the steward.

"And who are those, Mr Chadwick?" demanded Bold.

Mr Chadwick begged to say that if these inquiries were made merely
out of curiosity, he must decline answering them: if Mr Bold had any
ulterior proceeding in view, perhaps it would be desirable that any
necessary information should be sought for in a professional way by
a professional man. Mr Chadwick's attorneys were Messrs Cox and
Cummins, of Lincoln's Inn. Mr Bold took down the address of Cox and
Cummins, remarked that the weather was cold for the time of the year,
and wished Mr Chadwick good-morning. Mr Chadwick said it was cold
for June, and bowed him out.

He at once went to his lawyer, Finney. Now, Bold was not very fond
of his attorney, but, as he said, he merely wanted a man who knew the
forms of law, and who would do what he was told for his money. He
had no idea of putting himself in the hands of a lawyer. He wanted
law from a lawyer as he did a coat from a tailor, because he could
not make it so well himself; and he thought Finney the fittest man
in Barchester for his purpose. In one respect, at any rate, he was
right: Finney was humility itself.

Finney advised an instant letter to Cox and Cummins, mindful of
his six-and-eightpence. "Slap at them at once, Mr Bold. Demand
categorically and explicitly a full statement of the affairs of the
hospital."

"Suppose I were to see Mr Harding first," suggested Bold.

"Yes, yes, by all means," said the acquiescing Finney; "though,
perhaps, as Mr Harding is no man of business, it may lead--lead
to some little difficulties; but perhaps you're right. Mr Bold, I
don't think seeing Mr Harding can do any harm." Finney saw from the
expression of his client's face that he intended to have his own way.

Chapter III

THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER

Bold at once repaired to the hospital. The day was now far advanced,
but he knew that Mr Harding dined in the summer at four, that Eleanor
was accustomed to drive in the evening, and that he might therefore
probably find Mr Harding alone. It was between seven and eight when
he reached the slight iron gate leading into the precentor's garden,
and though, as Mr Chadwick observed, the day had been cold for June,
the evening was mild, and soft, and sweet. The little gate was open.
As he raised the latch he heard the notes of Mr Harding's violoncello
from the