that he had acted shabbily in the breaking of the engagement; for, while it was assumed that Josephine must have done the actual breaking, it was also assumed that he must have given her provocation and to spare.  This virtuous indignation was in large part mere pretext, as virtuous indignation in frail mortals toward frail mortals is apt to be.  The real reason for shying off from Norman was his atmosphere of impending downfall.  And certainly that atmosphere had eaten away and dissipated all his former charm.  He looked dull and boresome—­and he was.

But the chief disaster was material.  As has been said, old Burroughs, in his own person and in the enterprises he controlled, gave Norman’s firm about half its income.  The day Josephine sailed, Lockyer, senior partner of the firm, got an intimation that unless Norman left, Burroughs would take his law business elsewhere, and would “advise” others of their clients to follow his example.  Lockyer no sooner heard than he began to bestir himself.  He called into consultation the learned Benchley and the astute Sanders and the soft and sly Lockyer junior.  There could be no question that Norman must be got rid of.  The only point was, who should inform the lion that he had been deposed?

After several hours of anxious discussion, Lockyer, his inward perturbations hid beneath that mask of smug and statesmanlike respectability, entered the lion’s den—­a sick lion, sick unto death probably, but not a dead lion.  “When you’re ready to go uptown, Frederick,” said he in his gentlest, most patriarchal manner, “let me know.  I want to have a little talk with you.”

Norman, heavy eyed and listless, looked at the handsome old fraud.  As he looked something of the piercing quality and something of the humorous came back into his eyes.  “Sit down and say it now,” said he.

“I’d prefer to talk where we can be quiet.”

Norman rang his bell and when an office boy appeared, said “No one is to disturb me until I ring again.”  Then as the boy withdrew he said to Lockyer:  “Now, sir, what is it?”

Lockyer strolled to the window, looked out as if searching for something he failed to find, came back to the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Norman, seated himself.  “I don’t know how to begin,” said he.  “It is hard to say painful things to anyone I have such an affection for as I have for you.”

Norman pushed a sheet of letter paper across the desk toward his partner.  “Perhaps that will help you,” observed he carelessly.

Lockyer put on his nose glasses with the gesture of grace and intellect that was famous.  He read—­a brief demand for a release from the partnership and a request for an immediate settlement.  Lockyer blinked off his glasses with the gesture that was as famous and as admiringly imitated by lesser legal lights as was his gesture of be-spectacling himself.  “This is most astounding, my boy,” said he.  “It is most—­most——­”