Chapter 27

Chapter 27 — More Old Soldiers than One
Mr George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, for their destination is Lincoln’s Inn Fields. When the driver stops his horses, Mr George alights, and looking in at the window, says:

“What, Mr Tulkinghorn’s your man, is he?”

“Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr George?”

“Why, I have heard of him — seen him too, I think. But I don’t know him, and he don’t know me.”

There ensues the carrying of Mr Smallweed up-stairs; which is done to perfection with the trooper’s help. He is borne into Mr Tulkinghorn’s great room, and deposited on the Turkey rug before the fire. Mr Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment, but will be back directly. The occupant of the pew in the hall, having said thus much, stirs the fire, and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves.

Mr George is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks up at the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books, contemplates the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names on the boxes.

“‘Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,’” Mr George reads thoughtfully. “Ha! ‘Manor of Chesney Wold.’ Humph!” Mr George stands looking at these boxes a long while — as if they were pictures — and comes back to the fire, repeating, “Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and Manor of Chesney Wold, hey?”

“Worth a mint of money, Mr George!” whispers Grandfather Smallweed, rubbing his legs. “Powerfully rich!”

“Who do you mean? This old gentleman, or the Baronet?”

“This gentleman, this gentleman.”

“So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I’ll hold a wager. Not bad quarters, either,” says Mr George, looking round again. “See the strong box, yonder!”

This reply is cut short by Mr Tulkinghorn’s arrival. There is no change in him, of course. Rustily drest, with his spectacles in his hand, and their very case worn threadbare. In manner, close and dry. In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind a blind; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. The peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than Mr Tulkinghorn, after all, if everything were known.

“Good morning, Mr Smallweed, good morning!” he says as he comes in. “You have brought the serjeant, I see. Sit down, serjeant.”

As Mr Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat, he looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooper stands, and says within himself perchance, “You’ll do, my friend!”

“Sit down, serjeant,” he repeats as he comes to