When he came to be notable in certain ways among the legal practitioners of Chicago, and inquiries began to be made as to who he was and where he came from, nobody could give the answer. A rumor went the rounds during the proceedings of his disbarment, that he’d formerly been a confidence operator of some kind and had gone listening in at the trial of one of his pals. It was said that something about the legal maneuvers and court proceedings so impressed him with the idea that a lawyer was a pretty slick thing to be, that he started right in studying and reading and got by in a couple of years. I don’t know what there is to that story, but it’s as good as any. He was a solid, thick-set man of average height, with dark eyes that bulged a little and occasionally went glassy—an odd trick you seldom see. Made you think he’d gone off and left them for a moment while he was attending to other matters. His eyelids a good part of the time were at half mast, giving him a sleepy sort of look. It had a great effect when, in a court proceeding, he suddenly came out of it with one of his lightning strokes. His face, smooth-shaven, was heavy and hardly ever expressed anything, but he had expressions he could use when it suited his purpose. His forehead slanted back quite noticeably—not retreating in any sense—rather gave you the idea of the possibility of sudden and relentless advance, like some beast that springs or strikes. All these things didn’t make him appear anything especially remarkable. You see lots of bullet-headed men about, also men whose eyes are prominent and may go glassy for all you know. And drooping eyelids aren’t uncommon. * * * * * I’ve been speaking of this man as Mr. Pentecost, but that wasn’t his name at this time—in Chicago, I mean. On the door of his musty little office in the North Western Building a bit of modest black lettering announced the occupant as Max Spellman, Attorney at Law.