ELWELL’S DIVORCE.
Mr. Peter Coleman had an office in among the nest of other offices in
one of the large office buildings on La Salle Street.
The office of Mr. Peter Coleman was very small, situated in a
nothoroughfare of a hall, and conveyed the impression of having
wandered around until it had lost itself, and had never been able to
properly locate itself again.
A very small office, like a small case in court, and, like the small
case in court, it was generally closed. But for some days after the
conversation detailed in the last chapter, the little office had been
open all day. And the card stating that “Mr. Coleman was at court, and
would return in thirty minutes,” had been taken from its usual place on
the door.
The fact that Peter’s office had been open continuously for the past
three days was a subject for remark among his brother practitioners.
To find Peter in his office an hour at a time was unusual, for that
jolly young man was not noted for his application to business, and now,
for three whole days, the door of his little den had stood invitingly
open. And Peter had actually been there all day on each one of these
three days.
This was an unusual proceeding, and not a very pleasant one for Peter.
For not only were the hours very slow in passing, but his presence in
the office made it necessary for him to confer with the holders of a
number of “little bills” that he had heretofore managed to avoid.
Still, Peter kept the office door invitingly open, and appeared to be
waiting as patiently as possible for the arrival of some one whom he
felt reasonably sure would come in time.
In fact, he was waiting for a client, and perhaps Mr. James Elwell
was the client expected; but Mr. Coleman betrayed no surprise when
that gentleman entered his office, only brought forward a chair in a
professional manner, and then waited for his visitor to declare himself.
“I happened to be in the building,” said Elwell, in a nervous,
hesitating way, “and thought I would look you up.”
Coleman bowed his head in acknowledgment of this, and waited for more.
“The fact is,” continued Mr. Elwell, after waiting in vain for some
encouragement, “that I have been thinking over what you said the other
night.”
Mr. Coleman bowed again.
“You see,” his client went on, “your conversation happened to be
of interest to me. You had no idea that I was married?” he asked
suspiciously.
Peter protested that he had not the slightest idea of it.
“Well, I am,” admitted Mr. Elwell; and then he interrupted himself to
say half inquiringly: “Of course this is strictly confidential?”
“I treat _all_ statements made in the way of _business_ with strict
confidence,” said the lawyer, with a slight emphasis on the word
business.
“Well, this _is_ business, and good business for you if it can be
managed right,” said Elwell.
The lawyer said that he would try to manage it right.
“Well, you see,” said Elwell nervously, trying to wet his parched lips,
“I am married, but my wife thinks me dead. Now is it possible for me to
obtain a divorce--a legal divorce--without her knowing that I am still
alive?”
“All things are possible with money,” answered the lawyer dryly.
“How much will it cost?” inquired his client.
“It would cost a couple of hundred down, and perhaps would require more
than that. It would depend largely upon the case. Where is your wife
now?”
“She is not in this State; she is in Pennsylvania,” replied Elwell.
“Were you married under your own name?” inquired the lawyer.
Elwell shook his head.
“Then I presume your present name has been assumed?”
Another shake of the head from his visitor.
“Can you bring any charge against your wife?” inquired Coleman.
Elwell flushed almost indignantly.
“No; there is no charge to be made, only we have not got on well
together.”
“Incompatibility of temper,” said Peter. “That will do. Have you any
children?”
Elwell nodded and gulped. Something in his throat appeared to trouble
him.
“More than one?” inquired Coleman.
A shake of the head this time, implying an answer in the negative.
“Well,” said Peter, after a long pause, “you will have to tell me the
whole story.”
And then this rising young man told his story, told it in a half-sulky,
half-savage way, but told it truthfully.
“Now, what else do you want?” he demanded savagely, when he had
finished.
“A check is all I shall want from you to-day,” said Coleman coolly.
“You are sure you can do it, are you?” inquired his client, after
writing out a check.
Mr. Coleman was perfectly sure.
“What else will I have to do? How long will it take?” demanded Elwell.
The last question Mr. Coleman could not answer, to the first he said
that there were certain papers to be made out that would require his
client’s signature, and certain affidavits to which he would have to
swear. These Mr. Coleman would prepare at his earliest moment, after
that there was nothing for his client to do but to wait as patiently as
possible.
“Will I not have to attend court to testify, or anything of that sort?”
“No, nothing of that sort,” replied Peter. “You see,” he continued in
explanation, “the courts of Cook County are so crowded, and there is so
much publicity connected with all divorce proceedings here, that in a
case of this kind it is better to bring it before one of the interior
courts, where none of the parties to the suit are known.”
“You can do that, can you?”
“Oh, yes; it is quite common.”
“And there is no doubt as to the legality?”
“There is no doubt whatever,” replied the lawyer in the same peculiar
tone he had used in answering the same question before. “There is no
doubt whatever,” he repeated, rubbing his hands together and smiling
cunningly; “not the shadow of doubt.”
Elwell still lingered around the office, although there appeared to be
no more business to transact. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, almost
as if he regretted the step he had just taken, and was half inclined
to withdraw. He bit and tore savagely at the cigar he was making a
pretense of smoking, striding from the window to the desk, and from the
desk back to the window again, like a caged animal.
Coleman watched him narrowly while making a pretense of filing his
notes, but managing so as not to obtrude them on the attention of his
client.
“There is one thing that you can be sure of, Elwell,” he said, at last:
“she will never hear of this unless you make it known to her.”
He must have made a shrewd guess at what was passing in his friend’s
mind, for Elwell stopped in his nervous stride, and for a moment his
face lighted up. It lowered again almost instantly as he said, with
savage emphasis:
“I want to be sure of it.”
“You can be,” responded Coleman reassuringly. “She will never know.”
Elwell stood pondering for a moment, and then, with a wave of his
hand--perhaps intended as a farewell, but looking more as if he threw
the whole subject away from him--he strode from the office without a
word.
Peter Coleman sat at his desk, listening to the retreating footsteps.
When they had passed away from his hearing, he arose and went out into
the hall, to be sure that his client was gone. Returning to the office,
with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, he took up the
walk between the window and the desk lately vacated by his companion.
“Mighty risky business,” he muttered. “He is not the man I took him for
at all. Might prove dangerous if he ever got to know, and then, Peter,
my boy, you would be obliged to leave your lucrative practice and
skip.” This with a rueful laugh. “That name,” he said, thoughtfully;
“where have I heard that name? Not a common name, by any means; and I
have seen it somewhere. What was I reading just before he came in?”
and he went to the desk and tossed over the litter of papers that
encumbered it, taking up one after another and glancing over it in
search of the name.
At last he found it, and his face lighted at once. The paper he held in
his hands was an advertising circular of the Provident Mutual Benefit
Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Insurance Company, and it gave a list of
the death losses paid by that benevolent institution.
“Aha! friend Elwell,” he said, with a series of chuckles, “you did not
tell me about this. State’s prison, my boy--State’s prison. Some folks
call you a rising young man, friend Elwell, and some day you may be
able to give me a lift. You shall have it, my boy; you shall have it,”
he went on, chuckling in great glee. “You shall have one of my patent,
self-acting, adjustable divorces; and I don’t think its legality
will ever be questioned by you.” And looking immensely pleased over
something, Peter Coleman locked the door, and left the little office to
vacancy.