sacred! They ought to be punished, and I'll follow this rascal if it costs me every dollar I'm worth. I came to you because I thought you'd sympathize with me."
Mr. Harbinger moved uneasily in his chair like a worm on a hook.
"Why, really, Barnstable," he said, "I feel as you do about the impudence of writers nowadays, and I'd like to help you if I could; but – "
The other broke in with a solemn doggedness which might well discourage any hope of his being turned from his purpose by argument.
"I mean to bring suit for libel, and that's the whole of it."
"Perhaps then," the lawyer responded with ill concealed irritation, "you will be good enough to tell me whom the suit is to be against."
"Who should it be against? The author of 'Love in a Cloud,' of course."
"But we don't know who the author of that cursed book is."
"I know we don't know; but, damme, we must find out. Get detectives; use decoy advertisements; do anything you like. I'll pay for it."
Mr. Harbinger shrugged his shoulders, and regarded his client with an expression of entire hopelessness.
"But I'm not in the detective business."
The other gave no evidence of being in the least affected by the statement.
"Of course a lawyer expects to find out whatever is necessary in conducting his clients' business," he remarked, with the air of having disposed of that point. "There must be a hundred ways of finding out who wrote the book. An author ought not to be harder to catch than a horse-thief, and they get those every day. When you've caught him, you just have him punished to the extent of the law."
Harbinger rose from his chair and began to walk up and down with his hands in his pockets. The other watched him in silence, and for some moments nothing was said. At length the lawyer stopped before his client, and evidently collected himself for a final effort.
"But consider," he said, "what your case is."
"My case is a good case if there is any justice in the country. The man that wrote that book has insulted my wife. He has told her story in his confounded novel, and everybody is laughing over her divorce. It is infamous, Harbinger, infamous!"
He so glowed and smouldered with inner wrath that the folds of his fat neck seemed to soften and to be in danger of melting together. His little eyes glowed, and his bushy hair bristled with indignation. He doubled his fist, and shook it at Harbinger as if he saw before him the novelist who had intruded upon his private affairs, and he meant to settle scores with him on the spot.
"But nobody knew that you had a wife," Harbinger said. "You came here from Chicago without one, and we all thought that you were a bachelor."
"I haven't a wife; that's just the trouble. She left me four years ago; but I don't see that that makes any difference. I'm fond of her just the same; and I won't have her put into an anonymous book."
Harbinger sat down again, and drew his chair closer to that in which the other seethed, molten with impotent wrath.
"Just because there's a divorced woman in 'Love in a Cloud,'" he said, "you propose to bring a suit for libel against the author. If you will pardon me, it strikes me as uncommon nonsense."
Barnstable boiled up as a caldron of mush breaks into thick, spluttering bubbles.
"Oh, it strikes you as uncommon nonsense, does it? Damme, if it was your wife you'd look at it differently. Isn't it your business to do what your clients want done?"
"Oh, yes; but it's also my business to tell them when what they want is folly."
"Then it's folly for a man to resent an insult to his wife, is it? The divorce court didn't make a Pawnee Indian of me. My temper may be incompatible, but, damme, Harbinger, I'm human."
Harbinger began a laugh, but choked the bright little bantling as soon as it saw the light. He leaned forward, and laid his hand on the other's knee.
"I understand your feelings, Barnstable," he said, "and I honor you for them; but do consider a little. In the first place, there is no probability that you could make a jury believe that the novelist meant you and your wife at all. Think how many divorce suits there are, and how well that story would fit half of them. What you would do would be to drag to light all the old story, and give your wife the unpleasantness of having everything talked over again. You would injure yourself, and you could hardly fail to give very serious pain to her."
Barnstable stared at him with eyes which were full of confusion and of helplessness.
"I don't want to hurt her," he stammered.
"What do you want to do?"
The client cast down his eyes, and into his sallow cheeks came a dull flush.
"I wanted to protect her," he answered slowly; "and I wanted – I wanted to prove to her that – that I'd do what I could for her, if we were divorced."
The face of the other man softened; he took the limp hand of his companion and shook it warmly.
"There are better ways of doing it than dragging her name before the court," he said. "I tell you fairly that the suit you propose would be ridiculous. It would make you both a laughing-stock, and in the end come to nothing."
The square jaw was still firmly set, but the small eyes were more wistful than ever.
"But I must do something," Barnstable said. "I can't stand it not to do anything."
Harbinger rose with the air of a man who considers the interview ended.
"There is nothing that you can do now," he replied. "Just be quiet, and wait. Things will come round all right if you have patience; but don't be foolish. A lawyer learns pretty early in his professional life that there are a good many things that must be left to right themselves."
Barnstable rose in turn. He seemed to be trying hard to adjust his mind to a new view of the situation, but it was evident enough that his brain was not of the sort to yield readily to fresh ideas of any kind. He examined his hat carefully, passing his thumb and forefinger round the rim as if to assure himself that it was all there; then he cleared his throat, and regarded the lawyer wistfully.
"But I must do something," he repeated, with an air half apologetic. "I can't just let the thing go, can I?"
"You can't do anything but let it go," was the answer. "Some time you will be glad that you did let it be. Take my word for it."
Barnstable shook his head mournfully.
"Then you take away my chance," he began, "of doing something – "
He paused in evident confusion.
"Of doing something?" repeated Harbinger.
"Why, something, you know, to please – "
"Oh, to please your wife? Well, just wait. Something will turn up sooner or later. Speaking of wives, I promised Mrs. Harbinger to come home to a tea or some sort of a powwow. What time is it?"
"Yes, a small tea," Barnstable repeated with a queer look. "Pardon me, but is it too intrusive in me to ask if I may go home with you?"
Harbinger
