As evidenced in the message received by Covington, Levy had not been
neglectful of the case which had been intrusted to him by his new
client. Without much difficulty Buckner was located in New Orleans, and
identified as the proprietor of a low dive which had become the
rendezvous for the most vicious outcasts of the city. Drink and
debauchery had long since destroyed the physical advantages he had
possessed over other men at the time of his marriage. The death of his
child, to whom he had given as much affection as his nature possessed,
the stern arraignment of the neighbor who helped him to his ranch and
later brought him the tragic news, and the consciousness of his own
responsibility in the accident, all combined to drive him almost
immediately away from the scenes which reminded him of it; and as time
passed the bitterness turned to resentment against his wife. If she had
not left the ranch that day, he argued to himself, the accident would
never have happened. She had loathed him for months before the final
separation, and he had resented the disgust which she made no effort to
conceal. There had been enough manhood left in him then to feel it and
to resent it.
When he first heard that she had instituted divorce proceedings his
anger returned, and he determined to hold her to the unwelcome bonds if
for nothing else than to know that she still suffered; but a
consultation with an attorney showed him the futility of any defence, so
he simply held this up against her as another affront to be wiped out if
the time ever came which gave him the opportunity.
But he had long since given up all hope that this time would ever come.
During the years which had elapsed he had drifted from one city to
another, each time taking a stand a degree lower than the preceding. In
New Orleans he had succeeded in getting a little better living than
heretofore, so he had settled down there with the idea of making it a
permanency.
It was a welcome break in the monotony for him to receive a call from
Levy's agent, and the fact that the visitor felt inclined to provide
liquid refreshment of a grade considerably higher than he had been able
to indulge himself in for many years did not detract from his welcome.
As the evening wore on he was quite willing--almost eager--to tell the
story of his life to this agreeable and sympathetic listener, so Levy
had been materially assisted in the preliminary investigation of his
case. Nor was the welcome any less cordial when the agent appeared for a
second time, on this occasion offering Buckner five hundred dollars in
exchange for his "time and trouble." He was given no intimation
regarding the nature of his errand; he really had little curiosity. It
was enough that it paid what was now to him a princely sum, and also
guaranteed him an attractive experience at some one else's expense.
On his arrival Levy gave Buckner a welcome which raised his self-esteem
almost to the bursting-point. A box of costly cigars and a decanter of
fine brandy close at his elbow appeared to him as the height of
hospitality, as one gentleman would extend it to another. And when he
found that his new host manifested even as deep an interest in his
previous life as his earlier friend who had provided the money, he was
prepared to reciprocate in every way that lay in his power.
With the preliminary acquaintance thus happily and firmly established,
Levy opened up for business.
"In this suit for divorce which your wife brought," he asked, "the
summons was never served on you, was it?"
"Why, yes," Buckner replied, slowly refilling his glass from the
decanter; "it was served on me by a man named Murray, at Colorado
Springs."
"Oh, dear; oh, dear!" groaned Levy, with a mixture of pathos and
incredulity, "what an unfortunate memory you have! There was no one else
in Colorado Springs who knew about it, I presume?"
"Not there," Buckner answered; "I sent the paper to a lawyer in Denver
named Jennings."
"But there was no correspondence between you?"
"Yes; there were two or three letters."
"Where is Jennings now?"
"Dead, for all I know," he responded, with a cheerfulness which came
from his comfortable environment rather than from any particular
pleasure from the possible demise of the gentleman in question. "He
moved away from Denver later, and I haven't heard of him since."
Levy was absorbed in his own thoughts for several moments, which time
was profitably employed by Buckner again to replenish his glass, and to
help himself to a fresh cigar.
"Look here, Buckner." Levy spoke so suddenly that his companion
guiltily replaced the unlighted cigar in the box. "How difficult would
it be for you to forget that you ever had a summons served on you,
provided there was enough in it to make it worth while?"
Buckner boldly placed the cigar between his lips and straightened up.
"What's the game?" he asked. "Tell me what's up, and perhaps we can make
a trade."
"I have a client who might like to see that divorce decree set aside,"
Levy began.
"Another friend of mine, eh?" Buckner laughed at his own joke. "Never
knew before I was so popular." The brandy was getting in its work.
"Every one is interested in my marriage troubles, and here's one wants
to give me back my wife!"
"Never mind that," Levy stopped him. "This client of mine isn't
interested in you or in your wife, but he evidently has a private spite
against Gorham, who married her. He may not care to push it, but, if he
does, do you see what the game is?"
"Sure I do, sure I do," Buckner answered, thickly. "Damned good
game--I'll play it with you. It would hit her hard, too, wouldn't it?"
"What do you care if it does?"
"I don't care--glad of it--that's the special reason why I'm willing to
play the game."
"All right; we'll get down to business. I'm going to draw up an
affidavit that, as far as the divorce proceedings are concerned, you
never retained any lawyer, and never were served with a summons, either
in Colorado Springs or anywhere else; that you never knew of the pending
of the action, nor that this suit was to be brought to trial. And you
are to swear to this, do you understand?"