CHAPTER XII.
Mr.Oscar Mitchell was a bachelor, though not precisely lorn.

He maintained an elm-shaded residence on Front Street, presided over by an ancient housekeeper, of certain and gusty disposition, who had guided his first toddling steps and grieved with him for childhood's insupportable wrongs, and whose vinegarish disapprovals were still feared by Mitchell; it was for her praise or blame that his overt walk and conversation were austere and godly, his less laudable activities so mole-like.
After dinner Mr.Mitchell slipped into a smoking jacket with a violent velvet lining and sat in his den--a den bedecorated after the manner known to the muddle-minded as artistic, but more aptly described by Sir Anthony Gloster as "beastly." To this den came now the sprightly clerk, summoned by telephone.
"Sit down, Pelman.

I sent for you because I desire your opinion and cooperation upon a matter of the first importance," said the lawyer, using his most gracious manner.
Mr.Joseph Pelman, pricking up his ears at the smooth conciliation of eye and voice, warily circled the room, holding Mitchell's eyes as he went, selected a corner chair for obvious strategic reasons, pushed it against the wall, tapped that wall apprehensively with a backward-reaching hand, seated himself stiffly upon the extreme edge of the chair, and faced his principal, bolt upright and bristling with deliberate insolence.
"If it is murder I want a third," he remarked.
The lawyer gloomed upon this frowardness.
"That is a poor way to greet an opportunity to make your fortune once and for all," he said.

"I have something on hand now, which, if we can swing it--" "One-third," said the clerk inflexibly.
Mitchell controlled himself with a visible effort.

He swallowed hard and began again: "If we can carry out my plan successfully--and it seems to be safe, and certain, and almost free from risk--there will be no necessity hereafter for any of us to engage in any crooked dealings whatever.