sumed her seat. No distinguishable word came through the solid door, but there was the hum of a heavy voice. No one else was in the waiting room, but in a few minutes a gray-haired, well-dressed, self-important man of about fifty-five entered brusquely, nodded to the attendant, who nodded to him, and sat down rather suddenly in a chair opposite Marjorie, after picking up the copy of Field which he did not read but held as a sort of screen over which to peer. While Marjorie was still wondering in what relation to scandal he was waiting upon Rinderfeld, a buzzer under the Chippendale desk sounded in the most demure of audible tones and the black-gowned young lady arose and half-opened the door beside her; after Marjorie passed in, the door closed silently but with firmness.
With equal firmness was closed a farther door by which the gentleman of the deep, humming voice evidently had made his exit; for Rinderfeld was alone. He was on his feet on the other side of a flat, delicately legged table desk which was at the middle of the large, soft, blue Chinese rug which carpeted the room. In the waiting room the walls were grasscloth hung with a couple of good etchings; here on three walls were panels of the same hue of walnut as the desk and filing case and chairs; paneling too was between the two windows on the west which, like that in the waiting room, gave a view of the county courts. Possibly Rinderfeld did not quite appreciate the effect of overdoing elegant repression; obviously some one must pay for all this; and for the first time Marjorie affrightedly speculated on the cost of Mr. Rinderfeld's retainment. For her glance at him upon entering had relieved her of her overnight terror that inevitable public
