an aggrieved air, and his left hand was neatly-bound in black and tucked into his coat. He sank comfortably into my wicker chair, which creaked a protest, and produced two yellow-spotted cigars, chewing the end of one with much apparent relish and pushing the other at me. His two friends remained respectfully standing. I guessed at what was coming, and braced myself by refusing the cigar,—not a great piece of self-denial, by the way. But a case meant much to me then, and I did seriously regret that O’Meara was not a possible client. At any rate, my sympathy with Farrar in the late episode put him out of the question.
O’Meara cleared his throat and began gingerly to undo the handkerchief on his hand. Then he brought his fist down on the table so that the ink started from the stand and his cheeks shook with the effort.
“I’ll make him pay for this!” he shouted, with an oath.
The other gentlemen nodded their approval, while I put the inkstand in a place of safety.
“You’re a pretty bright young man, Mr. Crocker,” he went on, a look of cunning com-
