pplied as per our
understanding----"

"In answer to your favour No. 1107, referring to the case of the City
and County of San Francisco against Excelsior Warehouse & Storage Co., I
would say----"

His voice continued, expressionless, measured, distinct. While he spoke,
he swung slowly back and forth in his leather swivel chair, his elbows
resting on the arms, his pop eyes fixed vaguely upon the calendar on
the opposite wall, winking at intervals when he paused, searching for a
word.

"That's all for the present," he said at length.

Without reply, the typewriter rose and withdrew, thrusting her pencil
into the coil of her hair, closing the door behind her, softly,
discreetly.

When she had gone, Lyman rose, stretching himself putting up three
fingers to hide his yawn. To further loosen his muscles, he took a
couple of turns the length of he room, noting with satisfaction its fine
appointments, the padded red carpet, the dull olive green tint of the
walls, the few choice engravings--portraits of Marshall, Taney, Field,
and a coloured lithograph--excellently done--of the Grand Canyon of the
Colorado--the deep-seated leather chairs, the large and crowded bookcase
(topped with a bust of James Lick, and a huge greenish globe), the waste
basket of woven coloured grass, made by Navajo Indians, the massive
silver inkstand on the desk, the elaborate filing cabinet, complete in
every particular, and the shelves of tin boxes, padlocked, impressive,
grave, bearing the names of clients, cases and estates.

He was between thirty-one and thirty-five years of age. Unlike Harran,
he resembled his mother, but he was much darker than Annie Derrick
and his eyes were much fuller, the eyeball protruding, giving him a
pop-eyed, foreign expression, quite unusual and unexpected. His hair was
black, and he wore a small, tight, pointed mustache, which he was in the
habit of pushing delicately upward from the corners of his lips with the
ball of his thumb, the little finger extended. As often as he made this
gesture, he prefaced it with a little twisting gesture of the forearm in
order to bring his cuff into view, and, in fact, this movement by itself
was habitual.

He was dressed carefully, his trousers creased, a pink rose in his
lapel. His shoes were of patent leather, his cutaway coat was of very
rough black cheviot, his double-breasted waistcoat of tan covered cloth
with buttons of smoked pearl. An Ascot scarf--a great puff of heavy