"A queer kind of lawyer. He never goes to court, and his clients are almost all other lawyers. They go to him to get him to tell them what to do, and what not to do. He's got a big reputation among lawyers, Fred Norman tells me, but makes comparatively little, as he either can't or won't charge what he ought. I told him what Norman said, and he only smiled in that queer way he has. I said: 'You make twenty or thirty thousand a year. You ought to make ten times that.'" "And what did he answer?" asked Mildred. "Nothing?" "He said: 'I make all I want. If I took in more, I'd be bothered getting rid of it or investing it. I can always make all I'll want--unless I go crazy. And what could a crazy man do with money? It doesn't cost anything to live in a lunatic asylum.'" Several items of interest to add to those she had collected. He could talk brilliantly, but he preferred silence. He could make himself attractive to women and to men, but he preferred to be detached. He could be a great lawyer, but he preferred the quiet of obscurity. He could be a rich man, but he preferred to be comparatively poor. Said Mildred: "I suppose some woman--some disappointment in love--has killed ambition, and everything like that." "I don't think so," replied Baird. "The men who knew him as a boy say he was always as he is now. He lived in the Arabian desert for two years." "Why didn't he stay?" laughed Mildred. "That life would exactly suit him." "It did," said Stanley. "But his father died, and he had to come home and support his mother--until she died. That's the way his whole life has been. He drifts in the current of circumstances. He might let himself be blown away to-morrow to the other end of the earth and stay away years--or never come back." "But how would he live?" "On his wits. And as well or as poorly as he cared. He's the sort of man everyone instinctively asks advice of--me, you, his valet, the farmer who meets him at a boundary fence, the fellow who sits nest him in a train--anyone." Mildred did not merely cease to dislike him; she went farther, and rapidly. She began to like him, to circle round that tantalizing, indolent mystery as a deer about a queer bit of brush in the undergrowth. She liked to watch him. She was alternately afraid to talk before him and recklessly confidential--all with no response or sign of interest from him. If she was silent, when they were alone together, he was silent, too. If she talked, still he was silent. What WAS he thinking about? What did he think of her?--that especially. "What ARE you thinking?" she interrupted herself to say one afternoon as they sat together on the strand under a big sunshade. She had been talking on and on about her career--talking conceitedly, as her subject intoxicated her--telling him what triumphs awaited her as soon as she should be ready to debut. As he did not answer, she repeated her question, adding: