here in this office before we ever begin.  Yours might be such a one.  We don’t want cases merely for the sake of having them, and we are frank to say so.  Some matters that involve public policy, or some form of small persecution, we don’t touch at all—­we won’t be a party to them.  You can see how that is.  You look to me to be a man of the world.  I hope I am one.  Does it strike you that an organization like ours would be likely to betray any one’s confidence?” He paused and looked at Butler for confirmation of what he had just said.

“It wouldn’t seem likely,” said the latter; “that’s the truth.  It’s not aisy to bring your private affairs into the light of day, though,” added the old man, sadly.

They both rested.

“Well,” said Butler, finally, “you look to me to be all right, and I’d like some advice.  Mind ye, I’m willing to pay for it well enough; and it isn’t anything that’ll be very hard to find out.  I want to know whether a certain man where I live is goin’ with a certain woman, and where.  You could find that out aisy enough, I belave—­couldn’t you?”

“Nothing easier,” replied Martinson.  “We are doing it all the time.  Let me see if I can help you just a moment, Mr. Scanlon, in order to make it easier for you.  It is very plain to me that you don’t care to tell any more than you can help, and we don’t care to have you tell any more than we absolutely need.  We will have to have the name of the city, of course, and the name of either the man or the woman; but not necessarily both of them, unless you want to help us in that way.  Sometimes if you give us the name of one party—­say the man, for illustration—­and the description of the woman—­an accurate one—­or a photograph, we can tell you after a little while exactly what you want to know.  Of course, it’s always better if we have full information.  You suit yourself about that.  Tell me as much or as little as you please, and I’ll guarantee that we will do our best to serve you, and that you will be satisfied afterward.”

He smiled genially.

“Well, that bein’ the case,” said Butler, finally taking the leap, with many mental reservations, however, “I’ll be plain with you.  My name’s not Scanlon.  It’s Butler.  I live in Philadelphy.  There’s a man there, a banker by the name of Cowperwood—­Frank A. Cowperwood—­”

“Wait a moment,” said Martinson, drawing an ample pad out of his pocket and producing a lead-pencil; “I want to get that.  How do you spell it?”

Butler told him.

“Yes; now go on.”

“He has a place in Third Street—­Frank A. Cowperwood—­any one can show you where it is.  He’s just failed there recently.”

“Oh, that’s the man,” interpolated Martinson.  “I’ve heard of him.  He’s mixed up in some city embezzlement case over there.  I suppose the reason you didn’t go to our Philadelphia office is because you didn’t want our local men over there to know anything about it.  Isn’t that it?”