Chapter II: Legal Advice

GILBERT RAND--old Gilbert--was sitting, large and ruddy and cheerful, at a table in the corner of Henschel’s when Norman came in at twelve-thirty.

There are various ways in which an elderly lawyer of repute may show consideration for a young and untried one, if he is so disposed. Old Gilbert had been so disposed on various occasions during the past year, for he liked the boy. He didn’t know what Norman wanted of him now except that it was something legal and personal, which nevertheless could be disposed of at lunch. Norman had suggested a quiet place where they could talk without interruption, and Gilbert had said that Henschel’s would do.

He congratulated Norman on his victory in the Harrington case yesterday, to which Norman replied in a preoccupied way.

“Now,” he said to Norman, when the luncheon was under way, “what’s on your mind?”

Norman took the letter from his pocket and handed it over. “What do you think of this?” he said.

Gilbert put on his glasses and read the letter; then he read it again.

“A very clever piece of writing,” he said thoughtfully; “evidently intended to look as little like blackmail as possible.”

Blackmail!

“So you think so, too!” said Norman. “Well, what do you think I ought to do about it? Ignore it? or--what?”

“That depends,” said Gilbert gravely. “If I’m to advise you, I’ll have to know something about the situation. Who the girl is--her circumstances and character: you’d better tell me the whole story. Then we’ll know where we’re at.”

Norman was rather taken aback. But he saw the humor of it, and smiled. “Aren’t you taking a good deal for granted?” he said.

Old Gilbert smiled back at him. “Oh,” he said, “the alibi part comes later. I realize, of course, that you are not necessarily the responsible party in this matter. Girls are sometimes unscrupulous about that sort of thing. The man who is in a position to pay gets saddled with the responsibility every time. You remember that case here in Vickley last winter, in Magistrate Cooley’s court--I saw you there, I remember.”

“Look here,” said Norman. “You seem to accept it as a matter of fact--that I’m involved with some girl!”

Gilbert glanced at the letter. “I thought,” he said, “that was what the letter was about. If I’m on the wrong track, you’ll have to set me right. What _is_ it about?”

“I don’t know,” said Norman. “But when I read it, I thought the same thing you did. It seemed like a veiled threat of blackmail. That’s what puzzles me. You see, I’ve never heard of this Dr. Zerneke--and as for the girl, if that’s what it hints at, as you also seem to think, I don’t know who she’s supposed to be. The whole thing comes out of a clear sky. I haven’t the least idea what it’s all about.”

“That’s curious,” said Gilbert. “Let’s have another look at it.” He took it up, readjusting his glasses. “There _is_ something queer about this letter,” he said.

“Damned queer!” said Norman.

“I mean,” said Gilbert, “that it has an air of--well, of quiet certainty.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Norman, uncomfortably. Did old Gilbert think he was lying?

“To begin with, you are known by the writer to be interested in art. That in itself is nothing much. But the fact is put forward in a rather suggestive way. The reference to the Springer exhibit and the Steinbach galleries looks as though it were intended to remind you of something.... Does it suggest anything to you--a girl you met at the Steinbach galleries, for example?”

“I have not been in the habit of meeting girls at the Steinbach galleries--or any other galleries,” said Norman, a little on his dignity. “I know practically no girls in Chicago--and I certainly have made love to none of them.”

“Well,” said old Gilbert, “there are hysterical girls who make strange accusations, upon slight or no provocation.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Norman. “It must be something like that.”

“There’s some explanation for this letter,” said Gilbert. “Let’s see what we can make out of it. A girl in Chicago ... no, not necessarily in Chicago; she may have come there from somewhere. She goes to a doctor; we know nothing about this doctor, but presumably she knows her business. So we have to assume for the moment that the girl is actually in trouble. The doctor, apparently, is sympathetic. Money is evidently needed. The doctor undertakes to write to you.”

“Yes--but why to me?”

“Come, Norman; you are twenty-five years old, and so far as I know you have never taken any vows. How can you be sure that there’s no girl in the whole United States who couldn’t accuse you of having got her into this scrape?”

Norman flushed. “I don’t want to pretend that I’m a saint,” he said. “But I’m not a cad, either; I’ve been engaged to Madge for six months, and I swear I haven’t looked at another girl in that time.... In fact,” he added, “you’ll see how absurd it is to think that I could be mixed up in such a thing, when I tell you that there’s been nothing of that sort in my life since I left Cambridge. There was a waitress there--but that was fully four years ago.”

“Well, Norman, you ought to know. But the trouble with this matter is that it is so vague. If it mentioned a name, you would know where you are at. As it is, of course, you may have overlooked some trifling incident of no consequence to you at the time.”

Norman laughed. “I’m not such a devil of a fellow as all that. I’d not be likely to forget such an incident.”

“I hope you’re right. It might prove rather embarrassing to you if you went to this doctor in Chicago, indignantly convinced of your innocence, and then found you had made a little slip of memory.”

“You think, then, that I ought to go and see this doctor?” Norman asked in surprise.

“Somebody ought to go, and find out what it’s all about. There’s something that needs to be straightened out.... Mistaken identity, possibly.”

“Yes--there’s that,” said Norman. “There may be some very simple explanation.”

“In any case,” said Gilbert, “I don’t think it’s ordinary blackmail. A doctor, and especially one connected with a child adoption society, would hardly mix herself up with anything like that. And the whole tone of her letter shows a due consideration for your position. It’s written in such a way as not to make trouble for you if it fell into the wrong hands. And at the same time--or so it seems to me, though I’ve apparently stumbled into a mare’s nest--it attempts to remind you who the girl is.... That reference to the Steinbach Galleries--”

“I said I knew no girls in Chicago,” Norman interrupted.

“You might take a wider range,” suggested Gilbert.

Norman made an impatient movement.

“I’m only trying to help you,” said Gilbert.

“I know, and at my own request,” said Norman. “But I thought we had cleared up the possibility of it’s being me who is involved.”

“I suppose we have,” said Gilbert. “Well, I was going to propose this to you. I’m going to Chicago to-night, to see some people in connection with the Ostrander case; and I’ll go and see this doctor to-morrow if you like. I’ll be home Sunday, and your mind will be set at rest without undue delay.”

“That’s damned good of you, Gilbert.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.... Only you see, if I’m to act for you, I’d like to be quite sure of my facts.”

“You can be quite sure the facts are as I’ve stated them,” said Norman comfortably.

“Then I’ll take this letter with me,” said Gilbert. He folded it up and put it in his pocket. “However, there’s one more angle on this thing still to be checked up on.”

“What angle is that?” asked Norman.

“The Cambridge angle,” said Gilbert. “Nothing like being prepared for the worst, you know.”

“But that,” said Norman, “is all ancient history now.”

“Just the same, I’d better know something about it. When did these Cambridge incidents occur and what was the nature of them?”

“Well, besides the waitress, there was just one incident, really,” said Norman. “It was just before I came home.... It seems ages ago.”

“Actually, however,” said Gilbert, “it’s been something less than a year. Late June to early April--”

“Ten--” said Norman, and then stopped, with a shock of dismay.

“Ten months,” said Gilbert, “or to be exact, nine months and some days.” He looked at the young man questioningly. “Does that letter begin to mean anything to you now?”

“It couldn’t be Isabel,” said Norman wonderingly. “And yet--”

“Isabel?” said Gilbert inquiringly--suppressing a smile.

Norman spoke with an effort. “Springer’s pictures.... It was with her that I first saw them. At his studio in Boston. She took me there.”

Gilbert nodded. “And now,” he said, “this Isabel seems to be in Chicago, under the care of a doctor. It looks suspicious, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, but that--it’s impossible!” said Norman.

“For a girl to have an unexpected baby? I’m afraid not,” said Gilbert dryly. “Though this is rather late in the day for her to let you know about it.”

“My God!” said Norman.

The waiter appeared, and recommended the Mocha tarte.

“I don’t think I want anything more,” said Norman faintly.

“You’d better have some coffee. No? Then nothing for me either. Bring the check.”

When the waiter was gone, he said: “There’s no occasion to look so upset. Girls have had by-blown babies before. And respectable Vickley citizens have been the fathers of them.”

Then he added, more kindly: “We’ll go to my office, thresh the whole thing out, and decide what’s to be done.”