This raking of ashes in the hope of finding something of value unscorched was not a pleasant task for the young lawyer.  He had, years before, conceived the greatest admiration for his landlord and was never tired of telling his associates of how kind and considerate St. George had always been, and of his patience in the earlier days of his lease, Mr. Temple often refusing the rent until he was quite ready to pay it.  He took a certain pride, too, in living under the same roof, so to speak, with one universally known as a gentleman of the old school, whose birth, education, and habits made him the standard among his fellows—­a man without pretence or sham, living a simple and wholesome life; with dogs, guns, priceless Madeira and Port, as well as unlimited clothes of various patterns adapted to every conceivable service and function—­to say nothing of his being part of the best society that Kennedy Square could afford.

Even to bow to his distinguished landlord as he was descending his front steps was in itself one of his greatest pleasures.  That he might not miss it, he would peer from behind his office shutters until the shapely legs of his patron could be seen between the twisted iron railing.  Then appearing suddenly and with assumed surprise, he would lift his hat with so great a flourish that his long, thin arms and body were jerked into semaphore angles, his face meanwhile beaming with ill-concealed delight.

Should any one of St. George’s personal friends accompany him—­men like Kennedy, or General Hardisty, or some well-known man from the Eastern Shore—­one of the Dennises, or Joyneses, or Irvings—­the pleasure was intensified, the incident being of great professional advantage.  “I have just met old General Hardisty,” he would say—­“he was at our house,” the knowing ones passing a wink around, and the uninitiated having all the greater respect and, therefore, all the greater confidence in that rising young firm of “Pawson & Pawson, Attorneys and Counsellors at Law—­Wills drawn and Estates looked after.”

That this rarest of gentlemen, of all men in the world, should be made the victim of a group of schemers who had really tricked him of almost all that was left of his patrimony, and he a member of his own profession, was to Pawson one of the great sorrows of his life.  That he himself had unwittingly helped in its culmination made it all the keener.  Only a few weeks had passed since that eventful day when St. George had sent Todd down to arrange for an interview, an event which was followed almost immediately by that gentleman in person.  He remembered his delight at the honor conferred upon him; he recalled how he had spent the whole of that and the next day in the attempt to negotiate the mortgage on the old home at a reasonable rate of interest; he recalled, too, how he could have lowered the rate had St. George allowed him more time.  “No, pay it and get rid of them!” St. George had said, the “them” being part of the