I don't mind telling you that it's just about my first
case. Otherwise, I don't guess I 'd have gotten it."

"Why not?" The frankness had driven other queries from Fairchild's
mind. Farrell, the attorney, grinned cheerily.

"Because I understand it concerns the Rodaines. Nobody but a fool out
of college cares to buck up against them. Besides, nearly everybody
has a little money stuck into their enterprises. And seeing I have no
money at all, I 'm not financially interested. And not being
interested, I 'm wholly just, fair and willing to fight 'em to a
standstill. Now what's the trouble? Your partner 's in jail, as I
understand it. Guilty or not guilty?"

"Wa--wait a minute!" The breeziness of the man had brought Fairchild
to more wakefulness and to a certain amount of cheer. "Who hired you?"
Then with a sudden inspiration: "Mother Howard did n't go and do this?"

"Mother Howard? You mean the woman who runs the boarding house? Not
at all."

"But--"

"I 'm not exactly at liberty to state."

Suspicion began to assert itself. The smile of comradeship that the
other man's manner instilled faded suddenly.

"Under those conditions, I don't believe--"

"Don't say it! Don't get started along those lines. I know what you
're thinking. Knew that was what would happen from the start. And
against the wishes of the person who hired me for this work, I--well, I
brought the evidence. I might as well show it now as try to put over
this secret stuff and lose a lot of time doing it. Here, take a
glimpse and then throw it away, tear it up, swallow it, or do anything
you want to with it, just so nobody else sees it. Ready? Look."

He drew forth a small visiting card. Fairchild glanced. Then he
looked--and then he sat up straight in bed. For before him were the
engraved words:

Miss Anita Natalie Richmond.

While across the card was hastily written, in a hand distinctively
feminine:

Mr. Fairchild: This is my good friend. He will help you. There is no
fee attached. Please destroy.

Anita Richmond.

"Bu--but I don't understand."

"You know Miss--er--the writer of this card, don't you?"

"But why should she--?"

Mr. Farrell, barrister-at-law, grinned broadly.

"I see you don't know Miss--the writer of this card at all. That's her
nature. Besides--well, I have a habit of making long stories short.
All she 's got to do with me is crook her finger and I 'll jump
through. I 'm--non