The newcomer stood rigidly. In the dimness of the office he had the look of a musty portrait where the artist has allowed the body from the shoulders to sink into obscurity, the better to emphasize the chalkiness of the face.

"I am Mr. Bofinger," the lawyer said. "What can I do for you?"

The client, without answer, remained blinking at the lawyer. The clothes were shabby, of a style unfamiliar. The trousers bulged and wrinkled like sails in the wind. In the coat the elbows were polished and the cuffs eaten away. The narrow, ill-revealed eyes had all the cunning of the valet, spying the details that escape another, but with the insolence of the man who is accustomed to give command. The cast of countenance was Eastern, dominated about the thick lips by a set scowl of mistrust, which struck the lawyer at once, as well as the almost fanatic intensity of his gaze. The feet, the knuckles, and the nostrils, as in abnormal or extreme natures, were pronounced.

He remained at the doorway with undisguised interest, examining the unfamiliar surroundings with the defiance of one prejudiced against the profession.

Bofinger, who divided humanity into those who could pay and those who could not, satisfied on this score despite the poverty of the habiliment, rose and said:

"Come in, take a seat."

The visitor with a start removed his hat, discovering a fleeing forehead matted with coarse dark hair, and sliding forward ten feet fell into a chair. Standing his hands had obtruded, seated he sought to conceal his feet. Then suddenly, speaking from the corner of his mouth, he said:

"You're rather young."

"I have been fortunate," Bofinger said modestly, concealing his astonishment at this opening, by pretending to discover a tribute.

"Close-mouthed?"

"As an undertaker."

"Honest?"

"What, sir!"

"And honest?" the little man repeated, seizing a knee in either hand and looking him stubbornly in countenance.

With unfeigned astonishment, Bofinger shot to his feet, glared down a moment at the cynical, unrelenting scrutiny; then, with a bob of his head, wheeled, returned to his desk and said softly as he took up his paper:

"Kindly close the door—after you!"

There was a moment's interval, while each watched the other, the lawyer fearing the success of his manoeuver, the client weighing its sincerity as he balanced on his chair and blinked in indecision. All at once he jerked upright, flung aside his shock of hair and blurted:

"Mr. Bofinger—"

"No, sir, I beg you," the lawyer cut in, elevating two fingers. "Such questions cannot be addressed to reputable members of my profession—"

"I want to say—"

"No sir, it is useless. If I don't produce in you the necessary impression of confidence, then there ain't no use in prolonging—there ain't no use, I say—"

"Say, I take that back," the other interrupted decisively.

Convinced that the question had been designed to test him, Bofinger allowed a requisite interval to salve his dignity, before replying:

"You are, I see, unfamiliar with the etiquette of attorney and client. For that reason and because I see your business is of a kind to alarm you I'll pass over what you have just said. But I insist that without further delay" (here he consulted his watch) "you come to the matter in point, Mr. ——"

The little man shook his head nervously.

"You don't wish to give your name?"

"I don't."

"That ain't unusual," Bofinger said graciously. "Well, how can I help you?"

Thus faced, the client said carefully:

"It is a delicate matter."

At this trite introduction, Bofinger could not restrain a certain disappointed loosening of his body. He crossed his legs, caged his fingers and, meditating on the ceiling, volunteered:

"A woman?"

"Yes."

The visitor shifted in his seat, pulling at the knees of his trousers. Bofinger repressed a smile and a yawn.

"You couldn't have gotten into better hands," he said in sing-song. "Are there any letters? Does she hold documentary evidence?"

"No—no!"

"Good. Divorce or breach of promise?"

"What are you talking about?" his client said angrily. "I want information."

"I see," Bofinger said, resuming the scent, "and very stupid of me. Information preparatory to marriage, ain't it?"

"Certainly not!"

Bofinger, nettled at his insuccess, said grandly:

"If you will elucidate."

"It is an adoption."

The manner and the answer revived all the lawyer's curiosity.

"You said—"

"Adoption!" snapped the little man with evident ill humor.

"Very good. The case now is clear. With a view to adoption, I am to investigate the past life and present surroundings of the child."

"Yes."

"It is a girl?"

"A woman—a young woman."

At this answer the lawyer experienced an extraordinary quickening of interest that finally dispelled any fear of a commonplace case. This time he did not force a repetition of the essential statement, but adopting a matter-of-fact tone, poised a pencil and asked:

"What is the name?"

"Vaughn—Sheila Vaughn."

"And the address?"

"I don't know."

Bofinger raised his head in astonishment.

"But you know her—have met her."

His client, with a nod, suddenly abandoned his reticence and as though now he had come head high into the matter, there was nothing for it but to strike out boldly, began imperiously:

"I'm to meet her at four o'clock in Washington Square, northeast corner. You be there, follow her after I go, and get her address. Find out everything about her, where she comes from, where she lives, what she does."

"One moment," Bofinger said suddenly. "How long have you known her?"

The little man frowned, looked at him in disapproval of the question, and finally replied:

"Four months."

"Good."

"Look here, Mr. Bofinger, I want to know everything, complete. You know what that means?"

"Certainly."

The chair grated, the little man snapped to his feet, clapping down his hat.

"And see here. I forbid—that is, I want you to see that she don't suspect what's going on, not for a second. You hear—she's not to know I'm looking her up."

"That goes without saying. Now can I have a few days? Say—three from now. Where do you want me to report, Mr. ——"

"Mr. Bofinger," he cried angrily, "you ain't going to catch me with your lawyer's tricks. You thought you'd worm out of me where I lived, didn't you?" He stopped, glared at Bofinger and then cried: "Do you know what I think? I think you're nothing but a pettifogging lawyer—that there ain't no partner, and I'm no better'n a fool to talk to you. What do you say to that?"

"That I'm dealing with a lunatic!" Bofinger said brusquely. "I've had enough of you. Take your case somewhere else!"

"No, no," he answered chuckling. He remained shifting from foot to foot, swinging his big hands and blinking at the lawyer, who, from long contact with rascals, presented an offended innocence on the most honest countenance imaginable. At the end of a moment, reassured or not, the little man ground on his heel, squared his shoulders, and without so much as a word shuffled away.

Bofinger, with a few rapid steps, flung out the back passage into a sort of blind alley, choked with a damp display of mounting wash, hailed Toby the office boy from a knot of young gamblers, and returning showed him through the window the retreating figure of his late client.

"Name and address. Be quick and be damned careful." He spun a half dollar in the air, adding, "Waiting for you, Toby, if you're back within an hour."

"I'm on," Toby answered. He drew in a whistle, blinked one eye affectionately at the silver and disappeared like a shadow, calling back, "Put it on the ice, boss!"

Bofinger stood a moment, rubbing his chin. Then with a grin he dropped into his chair, saying contemptuously:

"An adoption!"