Coleman watched him narrowly while making a pretense of filing his notes, but managing so as not to obtrude them on the attention of his client. “There is one thing that you can be sure of, Elwell,” he said, at last: “she will never hear of this unless you make it known to her.” He must have made a shrewd guess at what was passing in his friend’s mind, for Elwell stopped in his nervous stride, and for a moment his face lighted up. It lowered again almost instantly as he said, with savage emphasis: “I want to be sure of it.” “You can be,” responded Coleman reassuringly. “She will never know.” Elwell stood pondering for a moment, and then, with a wave of his hand--perhaps intended as a farewell, but looking more as if he threw the whole subject away from him--he strode from the office without a word. Peter Coleman sat at his desk, listening to the retreating footsteps. When they had passed away from his hearing, he arose and went out into the hall, to be sure that his client was gone. Returning to the office, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, he took up the walk between the window and the desk lately vacated by his companion. “Mighty risky business,” he muttered. “He is not the man I took him for at all. Might prove dangerous if he ever got to know, and then, Peter, my boy, you would be obliged to leave your lucrative practice and skip.” This with a rueful laugh. “That name,” he said, thoughtfully; “where have I heard that name? Not a common name, by any means; and I have seen it somewhere. What was I reading just before he came in?” and he went to the desk and tossed over the litter of papers that encumbered it, taking up one after another and glancing over it in search of the name. At last he found it, and his face lighted at once. The paper he held in his hands was an advertising circular of the Provident Mutual Benefit Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Insurance Company, and it gave a list of the death losses paid by that benevolent institution. “Aha! friend Elwell,” he said, with a series of chuckles, “you did not tell me about this. State’s prison, my boy--State’s prison. Some folks call you a rising young man, friend Elwell, and some day you may be able to give me a lift. You shall have it, my boy; you shall have it,” he went on, chuckling in great glee. “You shall have one of my patent, self-acting, adjustable divorces; and I don’t think its legality will ever be questioned by you.” And looking immensely pleased over something, Peter Coleman locked the door, and left the little office to vacancy. CHAPTER XV. FANNY MORAIN. For a rising young man, Mr. James Elwell did not appear to be a very happy young man for some time after his call on his friend Peter Coleman.