“I suppose I should weep,” said Paul, “but I am no hypocrite. I cannot forget these years of cruel abandonment and misery.” “But,” said the lawyer, by way of consolation, “your future is full of promise and brilliance. There is absolutely not a single obstacle in the way of your complete enjoyment of a noble name and wealth.” “That may be true,” said Paul. “Fate has played him a scurvy trick to my advantage, but I have become bitter, my heart is sour with evil neglect. I have known starvation of body and soul; I have craved love, sympathy, affection, and only a dog licked my hand. Nothing can move me.” “I don’t blame you, my boy, but your future is more than bright.” “A new experience for me,” said Paul, who already felt as though a burden had been dropped upon his young life. “There are many complications likely to arise, in which you will need legal advice. May I consider myself retained in your behalf?” “I don’t know anything about these things,” said Paul, “but do for me whatever is necessary.” “By the way,” said Salmon, looking at Paul shrewdly, “perhaps you need an advance of money. If so, I can supply you.” Paul laughed. “Me, money? Why, man, I have learned the lesson of starvation so thoroughly that I need nothing.” “You are a happy philosopher,” said the lawyer, and with a wave of the hand the interview ended. Paul departed in a more than reflective mood. CHAPTER IX. DECIDED BY LOT. It was evening, and three of the most prominent men of New York City confronted each other at the residence of the sculptress. Milton Wayland, a noted stock broker, Edmund Connors, a successful politician, and Iago Doane, an editor, formed the trio. “I trust,” said Wayland, “we may now and forever settle the question of superiority at whist.” “I did not come here to play whist tonight,” said Connors, frankly and boldly. “Pray, then,” said the editor, with ill-concealed sarcasm, “what brought you here?” “Are you my father confessor?” said the politician. “No,” replied Doane, “I have enough agonies of my own; nor would I like to hold in my soul the knowledge of all your evil deeds.” “Do you think a politician is worse than an editor?” said Connors. “Frankly speaking,” said Doane, “no. The difference in our deception of the public lies in the method only.” The men were evidently ill at ease, but all laughed at Doane’s boldness. “We poor monied men,” said Wayland, “seem to be altogether out of consideration.” “How so?” said Connors. “Because in this day and generation,” said Wayland, “thanks to Doane, the newspapers have killed our trade by exposing our tricks.” Connors looked on in grim satisfaction at the contest between money and printer’s ink, and quietly said: “I am not so sure that newspapers are just what they should be.” “What’s the complaint against us?” said Doane, in mock fear. “There is as little honesty in journalism as there is in the world of finance,” said Wayland.