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Two days had elapsed, and Richard Farrell was seated in his private office going through his letters, and arranging his day's work. Not that he had very much to do, because, of late, his practice had fallen off, and clients were righting shy of him. Up to the present there was no tangible reason for this, though there were certain vague rumors floating about Hitherfield which were not calculated to impress business men in his favor. He had started well enough, three years ago, and, being the only young lawyer in the place, and possessed of an easy assurance in himself and a glib tongue, had begun to make a name for himself as an advocate in the police courts. And, for a time, he had done very well indeed.
But within the last few months, especially since Macrae had come to Hitherfield, he had lapsed into dubious habits. He had developed a fondness for racing, and the atmosphere of hotel billiard rooms. He was on friendly terms with more than one bookmaker in the neighborhood, and it was whispered that he owed Sam Farmer, the local bookmaker and stock breeder, a great deal of money.