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Updated: June 14, 2025
Gardiner, and the Coroner, after a short interchange of whispers with his officer, glanced at a group of professional-looking men behind the witness-box. "Call Dr. Mirandolet!" he directed. Purdie at that moment caught Ayscough's eye. And the detective winked at him significantly as a strange and curious figure came out from the crowd and stepped into the witness-box.
Bart made a brief, hurried explanation and ran over to the drug store. To his surprise his father was not there. Bart approached the druggist to ask an anxious question when the companion of the latter, a professional-looking man, spoke up. "You are young Stirling, are you not?" he interrogated. "Yes, sir," nodded Bart. "Don't get frightened or worried, but I am Doctor Davis.
One or two professional-looking men of mysterious identity quietly take their places at the bar. In the clerk's offices there is also a bevy of strangers. By a fortuitous chance, the stalwart form of Colonel Joe Woods illuminates the dingy court-room.
Steelman wore a snuff-coloured sac suit, a wide-awake hat, a pair of professional-looking spectacles, and a scientific expression; there was a clerical atmosphere about him, strengthened, however, by an air as of unconscious dignity and superiority, born of intellect and knowledge. He carried a black bag, which was an indispensable article in his profession in more senses than one.
On a morning of mistral, Rivière was seated in the pleasant warmth of the Jardin, planning out a special piece of apparatus for his coming research-work. He was concentrating intently so intently that he did not notice Miss Verney passing him with a very professional-looking campstool, easel and sketch-book. This second encounter was pure accident.
I went in to turn down the bed, and he was sitting by the window, reading the evening paper's account of the trial an elderly gentleman, rather professional-looking. Mr. Holcombe slept on the upper landing of the hall that night, rolled in a blanket not that I think his witness even thought of escaping, but the little man was taking no chances. At eight o'clock that night the bell rang. It was Mr.
Harker led him into a little parlour, comfortable and snug, wherein were several shelves of books of a curiously legal and professional-looking aspect, some old pictures, and a cabinet of odds and ends, stowed away in of dark corner. The old man motioned him to an easy chair, and going over to a cupboard, produced a decanter of whisky and a box of cigars.
Pratt, a professional-looking bag in his hand, a morning newspaper under the other arm, was standing at the gate of one of the numerous shrubberies which flanked the Grange, talking to a woman who leaned over it.
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