Through all this Mr. Miller sat quiet. He was a slip of an oldish
gentleman, ruddy and twinkling; he spoke in a smooth rich voice,
with an infinite effect of pawkiness, dealing out each word the way
an actor does, to give the most expression possible; and even now,
when he was silent, and sat there with his wig laid aside, his
glass in both hands, his mouth funnily pursed, and his chin out, he
seemed the mere picture of a merry slyness. It was plain he had a
word to say, and waited for the fit occasion.
It came presently. Colstoun had wound up one of his speeches with
some expression of their duty to their client. His brother sheriff
was pleased, I suppose, with the transition. He took the table in
his confidence with a gesture and a look.
"That suggests to me a consideration which seems overlooked," said
he. "The interest of our client goes certainly before all, but the
world does not come to an end with James Stewart." Whereat he
cocked his eye. "I might condescend, exempli gratia, upon a Mr.
George Brown, a Mr. Thomas Miller, and a Mr. David Balfour.
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