The Colonel’s moist, beady eyes swept silently over his client’s sallow face. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, and half closing his eyes as in dreamy reminiscence, said, slowly: “Your reply, Mr. Hotchkiss, reminds me of—er—sing’lar circumstances that —er—occurred, in point of fact—at the St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans. Pinkey Hornblower—personal friend—invited Senator Doolittle to join him in social glass. Received, sing’larly enough, reply similar to yours. ‘Don’t drink nor smoke?’ said Pinkey. ‘Gad, sir, you must be mighty sweet on the ladies.’ Ha!” The Colonel paused long enough to allow the faint flush to pass from Hotchkiss’s cheek, and went on, half closing his eyes: “‘I allow no man, sir, to discuss my personal habits,’ said Doolittle, over his shirt collar. ‘Then I reckon shootin’ must be one of those habits,’ said Pinkey, coolly. Both men drove out on the Shell Road back of cemetery next morning. Pinkey put bullet at twelve paces through Doolittle’s temple. Poor Doo never spoke again. Left three wives and seven children, they say —two of ’em black.”
“I got a note from you this morning,” said Hotchkiss, with badly concealed impatience. “I suppose in reference to our case. You have taken judgment, I believe.” The Colonel, without replying, slowly filled a glass of whiskey and water. For a moment he held it dreamily before him, as if still engaged in gentle reminiscences called up by the act. Then tossing it off, he wiped his lips with a large white handkerchief, and leaning back comfortably in his chair, said, with a wave of his hand, “The interview I requested, Mr. Hotchkiss, concerns a subject—which I may say is—er—er—at present not of a public or business nature—although later it might become—er—er—both. It is an affair of some—er—delicacy.”
The Colonel paused, and Mr. Hotchkiss regarded him with increased impatience. The Colonel, however, continued, with unchanged deliberation: “It concerns—er—a young lady—a beautiful, high-souled creature, sir, who, apart from her personal loveliness— er—er—I may say is of one of the first families of Missouri, and— er—not—remotely connected by marriage with one of—er—er—my boyhood’s dearest friends. The latter, I grieve to say, was a pure invention of the Colonel’s—an oratorical addition to the scanty information he had obtained the previous day. The young lady,” he continued, blandly, “enjoys the further distinction of being the object of such attention from you as would make this interview— really—a confidential matter—er—er—among friends and—er—er— relations in present and future. I need not say that the lady I refer to is Miss Zaidee Juno Hooker, only daughter of Almira Ann Hooker, relict of Jefferson Brown Hooker, formerly of Boone County, Kentucky, and latterly of—er—Pike County, Missouri.”
The sallow, ascetic hue of Mr. Hotchkiss’s face had passed through a livid and then a greenish shade, and finally settled into a sullen red. “What’s all this about?” he demanded, roughly. The least touch of belligerent fire came into Starbottle’s eye, but his bland courtesy did not change. “I believe,” he said, politely, “I have made myself clear as between—er—gentlemen, though perhaps not as clear as I should to—er—er—jury.”
Mr. Hotchkiss was apparently struck with some significance in the lawyer’s reply. “I don’t know,” he said, in a lower and more cautious voice, “what you mean by what you call ‘my attentions’ to—any one—or how it concerns you. I have not exhausted half a dozen words with—the person you name—have never written her a line—nor even called at her house.” He rose with an assumption of ease, pulled down his waistcoat, buttoned his coat, and took up his hat. The Colonel did not move. “I believe I have already indicated my meaning in what I have called ‘your attentions,’” said the Colonel, blandly, “and given you my ‘concern’ for speaking as—er—er mutual friend. As to your statement of your relations with Miss Hooker, I may state that it is fully corroborated by the statement of the young lady herself in this very office yesterday.”
“Then what does this impertinent nonsense mean? Why am I summoned here?” said Hotchkiss, furiously.
“Because,” said the Colonel, deliberately, “that statement is infamously—yes, damnably to your discredit, sir!”
Mr. Hotchkiss was here seized by one of those important and inconsistent rages which occasionally betray the habitually cautious and timid man. He caught up the Colonel’s stick, which was lying on the table. At the same moment the Colonel, without any apparent effort, grasped it by the handle. To Mr. Hotchkiss’s astonishment, the stick separated in two pieces, leaving the handle and about two feet of narrow glittering steel in the Colonel’s hand. The man recoiled, dropping the useless fragment. The Colonel picked it up, fitting the shining blade in it, clicked the spring, and then rising, with a face of courtesy yet of unmistakably genuine pain, and with even a slight tremor in his voice, said, gravely:
“Mr. Hotchkiss, I owe you a thousand apologies, sir, that—er— a weapon should be drawn by me—even through your own inadvertence— under the sacred protection of my roof, and upon an unarmed man. I beg your pardon, sir, and I even withdraw the expressions which provoked that inadvertence. Nor does this apology prevent you from holding me responsible—personally responsible—elsewhere for an indiscretion committed in behalf of a lady—my—er—client.”
“Your client? Do you mean you have taken her case? You, the counsel for the Ditch Company?” said Mr. Hotchkiss, in trembling indignation.