"No. I'd have punched you in the eye if I'd had time." "Don't apologize. You did your best. Now that you do know who I am--" "I don't. Except that you're the father of Little Miss Grouch." "Of who--um!" demanded the other, rescuing his grammar from his surprise barely in time to save its fair repute. The Tyro had the grace to blush. "It's just a foolish nickname," he said. "Particularly inappropriate, I should say. By the way, your own name seems to be a matter of some doubt. What do you call yourself?" "Smith." "By what right?" "Birthright. If it comes to rights, where is your license to practice cross-examination?" "Mrs. Charlton Denyse says that your real name is Daddleskink." "Well, it won't seriously handicap her popularity with me to have her think so." "Mrs. Charlton Denyse says that your attentions to my daughter have been so marked as to compromise her." "Mrs. Charlton Denyse is a--well, she's a woman." "Otherwise you'd punch _her_ in the eye?" "I'd scratch all the new paint off her," said the Tyro virulently. "My clerk had an awful time with that name of yours. He thought it was code. What's your occupation, Mr. Smith?" "Answering questions. Have you got many more to ask?" "I have. Are you a haberdasher?" "Don't answer," advised Judge Enderby, in his profoundest tones, "if it tends to incriminate or degrade you." "Hullo!" cried Mr. Wayne. "Where do you come in?" "I am Mr. Smith's counsel." "The devil you are!" "Therefore my presence is strictly professional." Now, Mr. Henry Clay Wayne was a tolerably shrewd judge of humankind. To be sure, the Tyro was of a species new to him. Hence he had gone cautiously, testing him for temper and poise. At this point he determined upon what he would have described as "rough-neck work." "How much will he take, Enderby?" "For what?" "To quit." With admirable agility for one of his age, Judge Enderby jumped in front of the Tyro. He had seen, underneath the rebellious side-curl which came down across the youth's temple, a small vein swell suddenly and purply. "Wayne," said he over his shoulder, "you'd better apologize." "What for?" "To save your life. I think my client is about to drop you over the rail, and I can't conscientiously advise him not to." "No, I'm not," said the Tyro, with an effort. "But I want to hear that again." "What?" inquired Mr. Wayne. "That--that offer of a bribe." "No bribe at all. A straightforward business proposition." "So that's your notion of business," said the Tyro slowly. "Well, why not?" Bland innocence overspread the magnate's features as if in a layer. "I ask you to name your price for quitting your pretended claim--" "I don't pretend any claim!" "--to a house, which--" "A house?" "Certainly. On Battery Place." "That isn't what you meant," bluntly accused the lawyer. "Of course it isn't." There was an abrupt and complete change of voice and expression. "My boy, I suppose you think you're in love with my daughter."