The office boy stuck his head in the door and drew it back. He shook it at a short, heavy man with a thinnish, black-grey beard who was hovering near. “He told me not to disturb him--not for anybody,” the boy said importantly. The man took a card from his pocket and wrote on it. “Take him that.” The boy glanced at the name and at the thin, blackish beard. There was a large wart on the man’s chin where the beard did not grow. The boy’s eyes rested on it--and looked away to the card. “I ’ll--ask him--” he said. The man nodded. “Take him that first.” The boy went in. The man walked to the window and looked down; the thick flesh at the back of his neck overlapped a little on the collar of his well-cut coat and the heavy shoulders seemed to shrug themselves under the smooth fit. The boy’s eyes surveyed the back respectfully. “You’re to come in,” he says. The man turned and went in and Eldridge Walcott looked up. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” “That’s all right.” The man sat down a little heavily--as if he were tired. “That’s all right. I waited because I wanted to see you. I want some one to do--a piece of work--for me--” “Yes?” “I don’t care to have my regular man on it--” “You have Clarkson, don’t you?” “Yes--I have Clarkson.” The man waited. “Clarkson’s all right--for business,” he said. “I want a different sort--for this.” He felt in the pocket of his coat and drew out a letter, and then another, and held them, looking down at them absently, turning them over in his hand. “It’s a divorce--” he said. He went on turning the letters in his hand but not looking at them. “I’ve waited as long as I could,” he added after a minute. “It’s no use--” He laid the letters on the desk. “It took a detective--and money--to get ’em. I reckon they’ll do the business,” he said. Eldridge reached out his hand for them. The man’s errand startled him a little. He had been going over divorce on the green blotter when the boy came in. He opened the letters slowly. A little faint perfume drifted up--and between him and the words came a sense of the blackish-grey beard and the wart in among it. He had stared at it, fascinated, while the man talked.... He could imagine what it might mean to a woman, day after day. He focussed his attention on the letter--and read it and took up the other and laid it down.... “Yes--Those are sufficient,” he said almost curtly. He took up his pen. “Your middle initial is J?” “Gordon J.,” said the man. Eldridge traced the name. “And your wife?” The man stared at him. “Her full name--” said Eldridge. “Her name is Cordelia Rose--Barstow,” said the man. Eldridge wrote it efficiently. “Do you name any one as co-respondent?” “I name--his name is--” The man gulped and his puffy face was grim. “John E. Tower is his name,” he said slowly.