The brass plate, let into the woodwork of this door, is misleading.
Reading it, you get the impression that on the other side quite a covey
of lawyers await your arrival. The name of the firm leads you to
suppose that there will be barely standing-room in the office. You
picture Thorpe jostling you aside as he makes for Prescott to discuss
with him the latest case of demurrer, and Winslow and Appleby treading
on your toes, deep in conversation on replevin. But these legal firms
dwindle. The years go by and take their toll, snatching away here a
Prescott, there an Appleby, till before you know where you are, you are
down to your last lawyer. The only surviving member of the firm of
Marlowe, Thorpe--what I said before--was, at the time with which this
story deals, Sir Mallaby Marlowe, son of the original founder of the
firm and father of the celebrated black-faced comedian, Samuel of that
ilk; and the outer office, where callers were received and parked till
Sir Mallaby could find time for them, was occupied by a single clerk.
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