“I don’t care to have my regular man on it—”
“You have Clarkson, don’t you?”
“Yes—I have Clarkson.” The man waited. “Clarkson’s all right—for business,” he said. “I want a different sort—for this.”
He felt in the pocket of his coat and drew out a letter, and then another, and held them, looking down at them absently, turning them over in his hand.
“It’s a divorce—” he said. He went on turning the letters in his hand but not looking at them. “I’ve waited as long as I could,” he added after a minute. “It’s no use—” He laid the letters on the desk. “It took a detective—and money—to get ’em. I reckon they’ll do the business,” he said.
Eldridge reached out his hand for them. The man’s errand startled him a little. He had been going over divorce on the green blotter when the boy came in. He opened the letters slowly. A little faint perfume drifted up—and between him and the words came a sense of the blackish-grey beard and the wart in among it. He had stared at it, fascinated, while the man talked.... He could imagine what it might mean to a woman, day after day. He focussed his attention on the letter—and read it and took up the other and laid it down....
“Yes—Those are sufficient,” he said almost curtly. He took up his pen. “Your middle initial is J?”
“Gordon J.,” said the man.
Eldridge traced the name. “And your wife?”
The man stared at him.