"Why, young man," he cried, his voice rising into a cracked treble, "he owes money he can’t pay. There’s five hundred thousand dollars of his notes in that safe there," and he pointed to the solid front of the burglar-defying case. "They fall due pretty soon--some of ’em are due now--and he can’t meet ’em." "Do you mean to say that he has borrowed money of you?" I asked in amazement. "I didn’t say that," he replied cautiously. "But there are the notes. They’re signed by Wharton Kendrick, and they call for five hundred thousand. When they’re presented he can’t pay ’em, and I suppose I’ll lose my money. I have bad luck about losing money." He shook his head ruefully, and drew down the corners of his mouth as sourly as though he saw the almshouse at the end of his road. "Oh," I said hopefully, "you’ll get it, I’m sure. Mr. Kendrick has a lot of property, and if he hasn’t the money, he can borrow it." This assurance was less pleasing than the prospect of loss that had soured his face but a minute before. "I know what property he has, young man, a good, deal better than you do," he said sharply. "And there’s more paper of his in the banks--I guess it’s all of two hundred and fifty thousand, maybe more. Money’s getting pretty tight now, pretty tight, and Kendrick’s about at the end of his rope. When he goes down, you’ll want a place to fall on." He looked at me ingratiatingly, and as I said nothing, he continued: "Now, I want to see that you’re taken care of. You shan’t lose anything when the smash comes, if you just follow my instructions." "It’s very kind of you to take so much interest in me," I began with an echo of his own sarcasm, when he interrupted. "Oh, I ain’t such a hard man as some people say. I want to do you a good turn, and maybe you’ll help me out. I’m a liberal employer to men who give me the right sort of service. Now you’re trying to be a lawyer--" I confessed that I hoped to do something in that line. "And I’ve got a little legal business to attend to," he continued, "and I want to know what you’d consider a fair fee." "Why," I said, "it depends, for one thing, on the work to be done, and for another on the amount of money we think the fellow has." Peter Bolton looked at me in alarm. "Oh, I have very little money, very little money," he said quickly. "Except for such little items as five hundred thousand in Kendrick’s notes, that you were just mentioning." "Oh, them. Well, I’m expecting to lose that money, and a man who loses five hundred thousand feels pretty tight pinched." "Now, as for the work to be done, if it were overlooking the Council of Nine and the anti-coolie agitation--" "Anti-coolie agitation!" he exclaimed angrily. "I don’t know anything about an anti-coolie agitation." "Oh," said I apologetically, "I supposed you knew what Waldorf and Parks and Kearney were doing with the money you gave them. Didn’t they tell you about it when they were here last night?"