On a Friday lunch hour in 1964, hungry and thirsty barristers returning from court were a chattering scrum around the doors of the Owen Dixon Chambers lifts. The doors of a descending lift opened, its interior lights revealing two male occupants; dei ex machina, so to speak. One was tall, ducal looking and immaculate in navy blue. The other was slightly stooped, hawk-nosed and hawk-eyed. He had the air of knowing many secrets and of having the answers to all the questions they raised. The scrum’s forward surge stopped. There was a hush as the scrum parted to allow a…