contemplative content, "I have you; and you do very well."
"There is a picture of Mr. Clarke in the paper to-day," said Joan Daisy. "With something about him."
"Huh?" murmured Max and opened his eyes. "It interested you? Of course," he commended. "Perhaps I can show you what will interest you more. Herman," bid papa Max, resuming upright posture, "the scrapbook."
With alacrity Herman arose and pulled from a shelf a large, flat book which he opened before his client revealing, to her amazement, a dozen newspaper pictures of Calvin Clarke. His name greeted her from headlines clipped from Chicago papers, from Boston newspapers and from a page entitled "The Harvard Alumni Weekly."
Several of the pictures she recognized, as they had been printed in connection with Ket's arrest; and there was the picture of herself, beside Mr. Clarke, on the stairs of the flat; but most of the photographs were strange to her and she bent over them, wherefore papa Max and son Herman exchanged a glance which she did not see.
"These surprise you," said Max, rubbing his hands. "Why? All there is to the law, I tell you, is I beat the assistant state's attorney or he beats me. Those books," he gestured his long fingers with disdain about his shelves stuffed with brown-leather and buckram-bound law books, "every attorney in town has them. This volume," he touched the wide, flat scrapbook, "I keep. One more lawyer keeps one like it, I know. That is why, when Mr. Ketlar is accused of murder, he thinks only of that other lawyer and of me. He does not know it; but never mind. That is why. We—that other lawyer and me—we are realists, simply; we do not deceive ourselves with pretty theories that anything matters but the
