“But I should win the case, for I should hire a friend of mine to defend me. A man named Peter.” Leonore sat down in Peter’s chair. “I’m going to write him at once about it.” She took one of his printed letter sheets and his pen, and, putting the tip of the holder to her lips (Peter has that pen still), thought for a moment. Then she wrote: DEAR PETER: I am threatened with a prosecution. Will you defend me? Address your reply to “Dear Leonore.” LEONORE D’ALLOI. “Now” she said to Peter, “you must write me a letter in reply. Then you can have this note.” Leonore rose with the missive in her hand. “I never answer letters till I’ve received them.” Peter took hold of the slender wrist, and possessed himself of the paper. Then he sat down at his desk and wrote on another sheet: DEAR MISS D’ALLOI: I will defend you faithfully and always. PETER STIRLING “That isn’t what I said,” remarked Miss D’Alloi. “But I suppose it will have to do.” “You forget one important thing.” “What is that?” “My retaining fee.” “Oh, dear,” sighed Leonore. “My allowance is nearly gone. Don’t you ever do work for very, very poor people, for nothing?” “Not if their poverty is pretence.” “Oh, but mine isn’t. Really. See. Here is my purse. Look for yourself. That’s all I shall have till the first of the month.” She gave Peter her purse. He was still sitting at his desk, and he very deliberately proceeded to empty the contents out on his blotter. He handled each article. There was a crisp ten-dollar bill, evidently the last of those given by the bank at the beginning of the month. There were two one-dollar bills. There was a fifty-cent piece, two quarters and a dime. A gold German twenty-mark piece, about eight inches of narrow crimson ribbon, and a glove button, completed the contents. Peter returned the American money and the glove button to the purse and handed it back to Miss D’Alloi. “You’ve forgotten the ribbon and the gold piece,” said Leonore. “You were never more mistaken in your life,” replied Peter, with anything but legal guardedness concerning unprovable statements. He folded up the ribbon neatly and put it, with the coin, in his waistcoat pocket. “Oh,” said Leonore, “I can’t let you have that That’s my luck-piece.” “Is it?” Peter expressed much surprise blended with satisfaction in his tone. “Yes. You don’t want to take my good luck.” “I will think it over, and write you a legal opinion later. “Please!” Miss D’Alloi pleaded. “That is just what I have succeeded in doing—for myself.” “But I want my luck-piece. I found it in a crack of the rocks crossing the Ghemi. And I must have the ribbon. I need it to match for a gown it goes with.” Miss D’Alloi put true anxiety into her voice, whatever she really felt. “I shall be glad to help you match it,” said Peter, “and any time you send me word, I will go shopping with you. As for your luck, I shall keep that for the present.”