Pivott the attorney.
The practitioner came to the Grange as fast as his horse could carry him.
Every one in Malsham knew by this time that Stephen Whitelaw was a
doomed man; and Mr. Pivott felt that this was a matter of life and death.
He was an eminently respectable man, plump and dapper, with a rosy
smooth-shaven face, and an air of honesty that made the law seem quite a
pleasant thing. He was speedily seated by Mr. Whitelaw's bed, with a pair
of candles and writing materials upon a little table before him, ready to
obey his client's behests, and with the self-possessed aspect of a man to
whom a last will and testament involving the disposal of a million or so
would have been only an every-day piece of practice.
William Carley had shown himself very civil and obliging in providing for
the lawyer's comfort, and having done so, now took up his stand by the
fire-place, evidently intending to remain as a spectator of the business.
But an uneasy glance which the patient cast from time to time in the
direction of his father-in-law convinced Mr. Pivott that he wanted that
gentleman to be got rid of before business began.
"I think, Mr. Carley, it would be as well for our poor friend and I to be
alone," he said in his most courteous accents.
"Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed the bailiff contemptuously.
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