When underworld business came in on him with a rush he began to be careful about what cases he took—not as to the guilt or innocence of the applicant, but in order to pick out what he had a sporting chance to win. The possibilities of what extraordinary and ingenious defense he could accomplish—sometimes not only approaching the danger line, but frequently going a considerable distance on the other side of it—would flash through his mind almost automatically as he made his first hasty examination of the case; upon the character and attractiveness (for he greatly enjoyed this phase of the game) of these possibilities would depend his going into the defense. * * * * * After Spellman really got going there wasn’t much of anything in his line he wouldn’t do. All the tricks and political pulls were as lower-case a-b-c to him, not to speak of the intimate personal records of lawyers, judges, and police officials who were likely to come within his sphere of action. Sphere doesn’t sound precisely right, but you know what I mean. He had an extensive collection of the weak spots—vulnerable regions, you might say—everywhere, and saw in an instant how to play them in any given case. Through some sharp move or threat in the right direction, or by dropping a bit of money where he knew it would be picked up, or by whatever else he could use as a club, he’d be about ninety per cent sure to get his man out of the mess. One day, to give you an instance, the assistant cashier of a Chicago bank of fairly decent standing was shown into Spellman’s office, and told him, after some beating about, that he was shy in his accounts by some two hundred and fifty thousand. The man, whose name was Chatfield, gave out the well-known tale about playing the stock market. “All gone?” Spellman inquired, without bothering to pull up his drooping eyelids. “Why—I think—not quite.” “Damn _think_! You know to a nickel what you’ve got!” “Yes—yes, sixteen thousand odd. I was—you see I was keeping it to—to get away on.” “They’ll be on to you soon, of course, or you wouldn’t be here.” “There’s—there’s barely two days! My God! Barely two!” Chatfield glanced about in a kind of agony. “And the—” (he swallowed with difficulty) “—the examiner might get here sooner. We can never be sure!” “You’ve got the remnant with you I see.” Chatfield nodded and his eyes moved painfully about in a way that made you think they’d fill up with tears in a minute. “You want me to handle this affair I take it.” “Oh, I _hoped_ you would. That’s what I——” “Pass me the sixteen.” The terrified cashier handed Spellman a large fat envelope, which the latter opened in a weary sort of way, and having pulled the bunch of bills out a little way, flicked their ends as he might a pack of cards before the shuffle. Then he looked glassily at the assistant cashier for a full minute. “Can you steal another hundred thousand?” he finally asked. “Why—why—I—you don’t mean——”