he
had received twenty five per cent., say, therefore, he stood to lose at
least six thousand. This pleased Jones more even than his victory. He
had a racial, radical, soul-rooted antipathy to Voles. Not an anger
against him, just an antipathy. "Now," said he, as he placed "Who's
Who" back on the bureau, "let's get off and see Mortimer Collins."

He left the house, and, calling a taxi cab, ordered the driver to take
him to Sergeant's Inn. He had no plan of campaign as regards Collins. He
simply wanted to explore and find out about himself. Knowledge to him in
his extraordinary position was armour, and he wanted all the armour he
could get, fighting, as he was, not only the living present, but also
another man's past--and another man's character, or want of character.

CHAPTER XI

THE COAL MINE

Sergeant's Inn lies off Fleet Street, a quiet court surrounded with
houses given over to the law. The law has always lived there ever since
that time when, as Stow quaintly put it, "There is in and about the city
a whole University as it were, of students, practicers, and pleaders,
and judges of the laws of this realm, not living of common stipends, as
in other universities it is for the most part done, but of their own
private maintenance, as being fed either by their places or practices,
or otherwise by their proper revenue, or exhibition of parents or
friends--of their houses, there be at this day fourteen in all; whereof
nine do stand within the liberties of this city, and five in the suburbs
thereof."

Sergeant's Inn stood within the liberties, and there to-day it still
stands, dusty, sedate, once the abode of judges and sergeants, now the
home of solicitors. On the right of entrance lay the offices of Mortimer
Collins, an elderly man, quiet, subfusc in hue, tall, sparsely bearded,
a collector of old prints in his spare hours, and one of the most
respected members of his profession.

His practice lay chiefly amongst the nobility and landed gentry, a fact
vaguely hinted at by the white or yellow lettering on the tin deed
boxes that lined the walls of his offices, setting forth such names and
statements as: "The Cave Estate," "Sir Jardine Jardine," "The Blundell
Estate," and so forth and so on. He knew everyone, and everything about
everyone, and terrible things about some people, and he was to be met
with at the best houses. People liked him for himself, and he inspired
the trust that comes from liking.

It w