casual acquaintance with the senior partner himself.

"That O'Connell is a regular clam--won't tell me anything at all!"
remarked Mr. Tutt severely, hanging up his hat on the office tree with
one hand while he felt for a match in his waistcoat pocket with the
other, upon the afternoon of the day that Miss Beekman had had the
conversation with Dawkins with which this story opens.

"National temperament," answered Bonnie Doon, producing the desired
match. "It's just like an Irishman to refuse point-blank to talk to the
lawyer who has been assigned to defend him. He's probably afraid he'll
make some admission from which you will infer he's guilty. No Irishman
ever yet admitted that he was guilty of anything!"

"Well, I've never met a defendant of any other nationality who would,
either," replied Mr. Tutt, pulling vigorously at his stogy. "Even so,
this chap O'Connell is a puzzle to me. 'Go ahead and defend me,' said he
today, 'but don't ask me to talk about the case, because I won't.' I
give it up. He wouldn't even tell me where he was on the day of the
murder."

Bonnie grunted dubiously.

"There may be a very good reason for that!" he retorted. "If what rumor
says is true he simply hunted for McGurk until he found him and put a
lead pellet back of his ear."

"And also, if what rumor says is true," supplemented Tutt, who entered
at this moment, "a good job it was, too. McGurk was a treacherous, dirty
blackguard, the leader of a gang of criminals, even if he was, as they