CHAPTER XIV.

ELWELL’S DIVORCE.

Mr. Peter Coleman had an office in among the nest of other offices in one of the large office buildings on La Salle Street.

The office of Mr. Peter Coleman was very small, situated in a nothoroughfare of a hall, and conveyed the impression of having wandered around until it had lost itself, and had never been able to properly locate itself again.

A very small office, like a small case in court, and, like the small case in court, it was generally closed. But for some days after the conversation detailed in the last chapter, the little office had been open all day. And the card stating that “Mr. Coleman was at court, and would return in thirty minutes,” had been taken from its usual place on the door.

The fact that Peter’s office had been open continuously for the past three days was a subject for remark among his brother practitioners.

To find Peter in his office an hour at a time was unusual, for that jolly young man was not noted for his application to business, and now, for three whole days, the door of his little den had stood invitingly open. And Peter had actually been there all day on each one of these three days.

This was an unusual proceeding, and not a very pleasant one for Peter. For not only were the hours very slow in passing, but his presence in the office made it necessary for him to confer with the holders of a number of “little bills” that he had heretofore managed to avoid.

Still, Peter kept the office door invitingly open, and appeared to be waiting as patiently as possible for the arrival of some one whom he felt reasonably sure would come in time.

In fact, he was waiting for a client, and perhaps Mr. James Elwell was the client expected; but Mr. Coleman betrayed no surprise when that gentleman entered his office, only brought forward a chair in a professional manner, and then waited for his visitor to declare himself.

“I happened to be in the building,” said Elwell, in a nervous, hesitating way, “and thought I would look you up.”

Coleman bowed his head in acknowledgment of this, and waited for more.

“The fact is,” continued Mr. Elwell, after waiting in vain for some encouragement, “that I have been thinking over what you said the other night.”

Mr. Coleman bowed again.

“You see,” his client went on, “your conversation happened to be of interest to me. You had no idea that I was married?” he asked suspiciously.

Peter protested that he had not the slightest idea of it.

“Well, I am,” admitted Mr. Elwell; and then he interrupted himself to say half inquiringly: “Of course this is strictly confidential?”

“I treat _all_ statements made in the way of _business_ with strict confidence,” said the lawyer, with a slight emphasis on the word business.

“Well, this _is_ business, and good business for you if it can be managed right,” said Elwell.

The lawyer said that he would try to manage it right.

“Well, you see,” said Elwell nervously, trying to wet his parched lips, “I am married, but my wife thinks me dead. Now is it possible for me to obtain a divorce--a legal divorce--without her knowing that I am still alive?”

“All things are possible with money,” answered the lawyer dryly.

“How much will it cost?” inquired his client.

“It would cost a couple of hundred down, and perhaps would require more than that. It would depend largely upon the case. Where is your wife now?”

“She is not in this State; she is in Pennsylvania,” replied Elwell.

“Were you married under your own name?” inquired the lawyer.

Elwell shook his head.

“Then I presume your present name has been assumed?”

Another shake of the head from his visitor.

“Can you bring any charge against your wife?” inquired Coleman.

Elwell flushed almost indignantly.

“No; there is no charge to be made, only we have not got on well together.”

“Incompatibility of temper,” said Peter. “That will do. Have you any children?”

Elwell nodded and gulped. Something in his throat appeared to trouble him.

“More than one?” inquired Coleman.

A shake of the head this time, implying an answer in the negative.

“Well,” said Peter, after a long pause, “you will have to tell me the whole story.”

And then this rising young man told his story, told it in a half-sulky, half-savage way, but told it truthfully.

“Now, what else do you want?” he demanded savagely, when he had finished.

“A check is all I shall want from you to-day,” said Coleman coolly.

“You are sure you can do it, are you?” inquired his client, after writing out a check.

Mr. Coleman was perfectly sure.

“What else will I have to do? How long will it take?” demanded Elwell.

The last question Mr. Coleman could not answer, to the first he said that there were certain papers to be made out that would require his client’s signature, and certain affidavits to which he would have to swear. These Mr. Coleman would prepare at his earliest moment, after that there was nothing for his client to do but to wait as patiently as possible.

“Will I not have to attend court to testify, or anything of that sort?”

“No, nothing of that sort,” replied Peter. “You see,” he continued in explanation, “the courts of Cook County are so crowded, and there is so much publicity connected with all divorce proceedings here, that in a case of this kind it is better to bring it before one of the interior courts, where none of the parties to the suit are known.”

“You can do that, can you?”

“Oh, yes; it is quite common.”

“And there is no doubt as to the legality?”

“There is no doubt whatever,” replied the lawyer in the same peculiar tone he had used in answering the same question before. “There is no doubt whatever,” he repeated, rubbing his hands together and smiling cunningly; “not the shadow of doubt.”

Elwell still lingered around the office, although there appeared to be no more business to transact. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, almost as if he regretted the step he had just taken, and was half inclined to withdraw. He bit and tore savagely at the cigar he was making a pretense of smoking, striding from the window to the desk, and from the desk back to the window again, like a caged animal.

Coleman watched him narrowly while making a pretense of filing his notes, but managing so as not to obtrude them on the attention of his client.

“There is one thing that you can be sure of, Elwell,” he said, at last: “she will never hear of this unless you make it known to her.”

He must have made a shrewd guess at what was passing in his friend’s mind, for Elwell stopped in his nervous stride, and for a moment his face lighted up. It lowered again almost instantly as he said, with savage emphasis:

“I want to be sure of it.”

“You can be,” responded Coleman reassuringly. “She will never know.”

Elwell stood pondering for a moment, and then, with a wave of his hand--perhaps intended as a farewell, but looking more as if he threw the whole subject away from him--he strode from the office without a word.

Peter Coleman sat at his desk, listening to the retreating footsteps. When they had passed away from his hearing, he arose and went out into the hall, to be sure that his client was gone. Returning to the office, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, he took up the walk between the window and the desk lately vacated by his companion.

“Mighty risky business,” he muttered. “He is not the man I took him for at all. Might prove dangerous if he ever got to know, and then, Peter, my boy, you would be obliged to leave your lucrative practice and skip.” This with a rueful laugh. “That name,” he said, thoughtfully; “where have I heard that name? Not a common name, by any means; and I have seen it somewhere. What was I reading just before he came in?” and he went to the desk and tossed over the litter of papers that encumbered it, taking up one after another and glancing over it in search of the name.

At last he found it, and his face lighted at once. The paper he held in his hands was an advertising circular of the Provident Mutual Benefit Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Insurance Company, and it gave a list of the death losses paid by that benevolent institution.

“Aha! friend Elwell,” he said, with a series of chuckles, “you did not tell me about this. State’s prison, my boy--State’s prison. Some folks call you a rising young man, friend Elwell, and some day you may be able to give me a lift. You shall have it, my boy; you shall have it,” he went on, chuckling in great glee. “You shall have one of my patent, self-acting, adjustable divorces; and I don’t think its legality will ever be questioned by you.” And looking immensely pleased over something, Peter Coleman locked the door, and left the little office to vacancy.