“Well, how does the law come on?  Had a case yet?”

Wilson bit his lip, but answered, “No—­not yet,” with as much indifference as he could assume.  Judge Driscoll had generously left the law feature out of Wilson’s biography which he had furnished to the twins.  Young Tom laughed pleasantly, and said: 

“Wilson’s a lawyer, gentlemen, but he doesn’t practice now.”

The sarcasm bit, but Wilson kept himself under control, and said without passion: 

“I don’t practice, it is true.  It is true that I have never had a case, and have had to earn a poor living for twenty years as an expert accountant in a town where I can’t get a hold of a set of books to untangle as often as I should like.  But it is also true that I did myself well for the practice of the law.  By the time I was your age, Tom, I had chosen a profession, and was soon competent to enter upon it.”  Tom winced.  “I never got a chance to try my hand at it, and I may never get a chance; and yet if I ever do get it, I shall be found ready, for I have kept up my law studies all these years.”

“That’s it; that’s good grit!  I like to see it.  I’ve a notion to throw all my business your way.  My business and your law practice ought to make a pretty gay team, Dave,” and the young fellow laughed again.

“If you will throw—­” Wilson had thought of the girl in Tom’s bedroom, and was going to say, “If you will throw the surreptitious and disreputable part of your business my way, it may amount to something,” but thought better of it and said,

“However, this matter doesn’t fit well in a general conversation.”

“All right, we’ll change the subject; I guess you were about to give me another dig, anyway, so I’m willing to change.  How’s the Awful Mystery flourishing these days?  Wilson’s got a scheme for driving plain window glass panes out of the market by decorating it with greasy finger marks, and getting rich by selling it at famine prices to the crowned heads over in Europe to outfit their palaces with.  Fetch it out, Dave.”

Wilson brought three of his glass strips, and said: 

“I get the subject to pass the fingers of his right hand through his hair, so as to get a little coating of the natural oil on them, and then press the balls of them on the glass.  A fine and delicate print of the lines in the skin results, and is permanent, if it doesn’t come in contact with something able to rub it off.  You begin, Tom.”

“Why, I think you took my finger marks once or twice before.”

“Yes, but you were a little boy the last time, only about twelve years old.”

“That’s so.  Of course, I’ve changed entirely since then, and variety is what the crowned heads want, I guess.”

He passed his fingers through his crop of short hair, and pressed them one at a time on the glass.  Angelo made a print of his fingers on another glass, and Luigi followed with a third.  Wilson marked the glasses with names and dates, and put them away.  Tom gave one of his little laughs, and said: