untiring curiosity of life. At twenty-five, unless dissipation has scarred it, the face of a man is a record yet to be written and the first marks are significant. From the nostrils to the corners of the mouth two furrows had already set, which when he smiled recalled that statue of Voltaire which, above the fret of the Boulevard St. Germain, mocks those who cannot see life is but a jest.

Though rich, he dressed carelessly. The felt hat askew on his head was weather-worn. The blue tie straggled from its knot. The trousers sustained by a belt bagged from the hips to the boots which showed the white seam of a crack.

Nevertheless, beside him, Bofinger in his immaculate trousers, stiff white vest, and planked shirt had the air of a countryman who dresses once a year for a wedding or a funeral, while there was about LeBeau an atmosphere of aristocratic certainty which gave the impression that his bohemianism was a mood into which, as into all things, he had ventured to sample the sensation.

He had been listening vacantly to Bofinger, intent more on pursuing some train of thought of his own. At length he crumpled up the bag and asked with that impertinence which reporters use to arrive more directly to their ends:

"Alonzo, did you ever in the course of your distinguished services happen to defend an honest man?"

Bofinger feigned an air of reflection, then with a superior smile answered:

"How many do you know?"

The paper bag hurled at the waste basket fell back, spilling its crumbs. LeBeau without attention to the accident drew out a cigar, crossed his legs and began gravely:

"How many do I know? You don't believe in the animal then? That phrase, my poor Bo, condemns you to mediocrity. Man, honesty is not a fixed virtue! Any one may become honest, at times, and for a variety of reasons."

"Joseph, you alarm me," said Ganzler, stirring under his hat. "Alarm me and disturb my slumbers."

"Honesty as a variety is an absolute necessity to man," continued LeBeau, half in raillery, half in conviction. "It stimulates our imagination and resuscitates our powers for sinning. We reserve it as a sort of moral bath; when we feel ourselves getting too black, why, we seek out an honest action and cleanse ourselves. It is a moral bath and a very slight application removes the stains. Blessed be our human nature!"

"Joe, your view of human nature is horrible," interjected Ganzler. "Say, can't we trust any man to remain dishonest?"

"Not even you, you old grafter," LeBeau said with a complimentary oath.

"I pass that. But Bo?" continued Ganzler. Then answering his own question he added: "Bo, though, isn't to be relied on, he's not a steady character. Say Groll then—now go slow, you ain't going to tell us Groll's in any danger? I'd hate to think that."

The impudence of journalists is unbounded. All is permitted them if only they say it with an air of insincerity. On their side they abuse their prerogative, as women avail themselves of banter to leave the sting of truth. As LeBeau remained silent and thoughtful, Bofinger rose and examined the street, while Ganzler turning to the wall grunted:

"That was a poser."

"If I am right," LeBeau said with deliberation. "Of the four of us, Groll is the surest to end honest and respectable." He added: "He's a conservative—the present is but a ladder."

Ganzler and Bofinger, who saw in his gravity an exquisite irony, went off into riotous laughter, but LeBeau had the satisfaction of seeing, in the shadow, Groll abruptly raise his head.

"A man is neither good nor bad, honest or dishonest," he continued, "but a sensitive organism that under different conditions responds to different impulses."

"Hello, here's Flora," said Ganzler.

A woman entered, young and with a memory of good looks. Bofinger rose and the two disappeared through one of the glass doors.

"The man who succeeds," said LeBeau, speaking to Groll, "is he who studies the conditions that may turn an honest man to dishonesty, and those that bring a rascal to repentance. The important thing is not to fix the price of each man. Not at all. The thing is to use rogues not as rogues, but as rogues in whom is the fatal impulse to honesty."

"Hello, that's an idea," said Ganzler.

The door of the cabinet creaked and Bofinger, sticking out his head, said with an oath:

"Same story—she wants more time!"

Groll without a word let fall his fist; Bofinger, interpreting the refusal, disappeared. A cry was heard. The door shut, LeBeau resumed.

"That's what Bofinger doesn't see, and yet it is the obstacle he ought always to be dreading. Nothing more dangerous than honesty. Why, it is often nothing but an obstinate revulsion of pride in a man who for a whim or a moment resents being counted on as a rascal. That is temperamental honesty, liable at any moment to trip up a case. Then, a man can become honest by terror, or anger, or superstition, or sheer caprice. The truth is, in these days, you can count on no man's dishonesty. So confident am I of this beautiful truth that I prophesy Bo will end a shyster lawyer in a shyster court."

The woman reappeared, trailed by Bofinger, who shrugged his shoulders at her sullen departure.

"No use, Flora," broke in Ganzler, impudently, "you dress too well for that game. Pay and be protected. The system is better than another one we know."

The girl stopped for a furious retort, in one of those passions which shake the existence of the outcast and bring a hundred times into their lives the lust of murder. Then compressing her lips she wheeled and bolted out.

Ganzler laughed uneasily; LeBeau, forgetting his theme, watched her retreat. From behind, she showed a pleasing figure and the movements of a young girl.

"Take the other side," Bofinger said, returning to his perch. "Every man is more or less dishonest. Admit that proposition."

"It is debatable," said LeBeau, whose eyes still followed the woman.

"We graft or allow grafting—and what's the difference?" Bofinger pursued contemptuously. "A man who touches society the way we do has got no illusions I can tell you. Do you know how I could live if I wanted to—without its costing me a cent? Talk to me of your honesty! For lodging I could put up at a dozen hotels who want protection. For meals there are restaurants by the hundred who don't want to be looked into too closely. Stand in with the force and anything is yours."

"You said clothes?" inquired Ganzler with particular interest.

"Well, it ain't so hard to find a sweat shop that's breaking the law, is it?" Bofinger replied with a smile. "Liquor and tobacco are too easy. Theaters that break the rule of the fire department will keep you amused. Pawnshops on the queer will give you a fine assortment of jewelry, and you can get a hack when you want it from any night hawk who expects to get into court."

"Correct," said Ganzler, with an approving nod, "and convincing."

"Fact is, there is pretty nearly nothing you couldn't get served up to you," Bofinger ended, with too much pride for either to misunderstand it. "Nothing—because you can always find some one who is grafting in a large or small way. Hell, how absurd justice is! Take this case just now. If adultery is a crime, why don't they prosecute a woman of the world in a divorce scandal instead of some miserable brute who lives by selling herself for a few little dollars!"

Ganzler admired the fine flush of indignation and nodded wisely. LeBeau, remembering