"That's where we come in," said Tutt. "We make the difference--even if there never was any before." Mr. Tutt chuckled. "We perform a dual service to society," he declared. "We prevent the law from making mistakes and so keep it from falling into disrepute, and we show up its weak points and thus enable it to be improved." "And incidentally we keep many a future statesman and prophet from going to prison," said Tutt. "The name of the last one was Solomon Rabinovitch--and he was charged with stealing a second-hand razor from a colored person described in the papers as one Morris Cohen." How long this specious philosophic discussion would have continued is problematical had it not been interrupted by the entry of a young gentleman dressed with a somewhat ostentatious elegance, whose wizened face bore an expression at once of vast good nature and of a deep and subtle wisdom. It was clear that he held an intimate relationship to Tutt & Tutt from the familiar way in which he returned their cordial, if casual, salutations. "Well, here we are again," remarked Mr. Doon pleasantly, seating himself upon the corner of Mr. Tutt's desk and spinning his bowler hat upon the forefinger of his left hand. "The hospitals are empty. The Tombs is as dry as a bone. Everybody's good and every day'll be Sunday by and by." "How about that man who stole a razor?" asked Tutt. "Discharged on the ground that the fact that he had a full beard created a reasonable doubt," replied Doon. "Honestly there's nothing doing in my line--unless you want a tramp case." "A tramp case!" exclaimed Tutt & Tutt. "I suppose you'd call it that," he answered blandly. "I don't think he was a burglar. Anyhow he's in the Tombs now, shouting for a lawyer. I listened to him and made a note of the case." Mr. Tutt pushed over the box of stogies and leaned back attentively. "You know the Hepplewhite house up on Fifth Avenue--that great stone one with the driveway?" The Tutts nodded. "Well, it appears that the prisoner--our prospective client--was snooping round looking for something to eat and found that the butler had left the front door slightly ajar. Filled with a natural curiosity to observe how the other half lived, he thrust his way cautiously in and found himself in the main hall--hung with tapestry and lined with stands of armor. No one was to be seen. Can't you imagine him standing there in his rags--the Weary Willy of the comic supplements--gazing about him at the _objets d'art_, the old masters, the onyx tables, the statuary--wondering where the pantry was and whether the housekeeper would be more likely to feed him or kick him out?" "Weren't any of the domestics about?" inquired Tutt.