COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left?     

       FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir—for good.     

       COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't mention about the party having called, but——     

       FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir.     

CONTENTS

         COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost apologetic voice.       

       WALTER. Good-morning, Cokeson.     

       COKESON. Morning, Mr. Walter.     

       WALTER. My father here?     

       COKESON. [Always with a certain patronage as to a young man who might be       doing better] Mr. James has been here since eleven o'clock.     

       WALTER. I've been in to see the pictures, at the Guildhall.     

       COKESON. [Looking at him as though this were exactly what was to be expected] Have you now—ye—es. This lease of Boulter's—am I to send it to counsel?     

       WALTER. What does my father say?     

       COKESON. 'Aven't bothered him.     

       WALTER. Well, we can't be too careful.     

       COKESON. It's such a little thing—hardly worth the fees. I thought you'd do it yourself.     

       WALTER. Send it, please. I don't want the responsibility.     

       COKESON. [With an indescribable air of compassion] Just as you like. This       "right-of-way" case—we've got 'em on the deeds.     

       WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit of common ground.     

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