A few days later Peter Ganser appeared before Beck, triumph flaunting from his stupid features. Beck instantly scented bad news.
"Stop the case," said Peter with a vulgar insolence that grated upon the lawyer. "It's no good."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Ganser. I don't follow you."
"But I follow myself. Stop the case. I pay you off now."
"You can't deal with courts as you can with your employees, Mr. Ganser. There are legal forms to be gone through. Of course, if you're reconciled to your son-in-law, why—"
Peter laughed. "Son-in-law! That scoundrel—he's a bigamist. I got the proofs from Germany this morning."
Beck became blue round the edges of his mouth and his eyes snapped. "So you've been taking steps in this case without consulting me, Mr. Ganser?"
"I don't trust lawyers. Anyway, what I hire you for? To try my case. It's none of your business what I do outside. I pay you off, and I don't pay for any dirty works I don't get." He had wrought himself into a fury. Experience had taught him that that was the best mood in which to conduct an argument about money.
"We'll send you your bill," said Beck, in a huge, calm rage against this dull man who had outwitted him. "If you wish to make a scene, will you kindly go elsewhere?"
"I want to pay you off—right away quick. I think you and Loeb in cahoots. My detective, he says you both must have known about Feuerstein. He says you two were partners and knew his record. I'll expose you, if you don't settle now. Give me my bill."
"It is impossible." Beck's tone was mild and persuasive. "All the items are not in."
Ganser took out a roll of notes. "I pay you five hundred dollars. Take it or fight. I want a full receipt. I discharge you now."
"My dear sir, we do not give our services for any such sum as that."
"Yes you do. And you don't get a cent more. If I go out of here without my full receipt, I fight. I expose you, you swindler."
Peter was shouting at the top of his lusty lungs. Beck wrote a receipt and handed it to him. Peter read it and handed it back. "I'm not as big a fool as I look," he said. "That ain't a full receipt."
Beck wrote again. "Anything to get you out of the office," he said, as he tossed the five hundred dollars into a drawer. "And when your family gets you into trouble again—"
Peter snorted. "Shut up!" he shouted, banging his fist on the desk. "And don't you tell the papers. If anything come out, I expose you. My lawyer, Mr. Windisch, say he can have you put out of court." And Peter bustled and slammed his way out.
Beck telephoned Loeb, and they took lunch together. "Ganser has found out about Feuerstein's wife," was Beck's opening remark.
Loeb drew his lip back over his teeth.
"I wish I'd known it two hours sooner. I let Feuerstein have ten dollars more."
"More?"
"More. He's had ninety-five on account. I relied on you to handle the brewer."
"And we're out our expenses in getting ready for trial."
"Well—you'll send Ganser a heavy bill."
Beck shook his head dismally. "That's the worst of it. He called me a swindler, said he'd show that you and I were in a conspiracy, and dared me to send him a bill. And in the circumstances I don't think I will."
Loeb gave Beck a long and searching look which Beck bore without flinching.
"No, I don't think you will send him a bill," said Loeb slowly. "But how much did he pay you?"
"Not a cent—nothing but insults."
Loeb finished his luncheon in silence. But he and Beck separated on the friendliest terms. Loeb was too practical a philosopher to hate another man for doing that which he would have done himself if he had had the chance. At his office he told a clerk to send Feuerstein a note, asking him to call the next morning. When Feuerstein came into the anteroom the gimlet-eyed office boy disappeared through one of the doors in the partition and reappeared after a longer absence than usual. He looked at Feuerstein with a cynical, contemptuous smile in his eyes.
"Mr. Loeb asks me to tell you," he said, "with his compliments, that you are a bigamist and a swindler, and that if you ever show your face here again he'll have you locked up."
Feuerstein staggered and paled—there was no staginess in his manner. Then without a word he slunk away. He had not gone far up Center Street before a hand was laid upon his shoulder from behind. He stopped as if he had been shot; he shivered; he slowly, and with a look of fascinated horror, turned to see whose hand had arrested him.
He was looking into the laughing face of a man who was obviously a detective.
"You don't seem glad to see me, old boy," said the detective with contemptuous familiarity.
"I don't know you, sir." Feuerstein made a miserable attempt at haughtiness.
"Of course you don't. But I know YOU—all about you. Come in here and let's sit down a minute."
They went into a saloon and the detective ordered two glasses of beer. "Now listen to me, young fellow," he said.
"You're played out in this town. You've got to get a move on you, see? We've been looking you up, and you're wanted for bigamy. But if you clear out, you won't be followed. You've got to leave today, understand? If you're here to-morrow morning, up the road you go." The detective winked and waggled his thumb meaningly in a northerly direction.
Feuerstein was utterly crushed. He gulped down the beer and sat wiping the sweat from his face. "I have done nothing," he protested in tragic tones. "Why am I persecuted—I, poor, friendless, helpless?"
"Pity about you," said the detective.
"You'd better go west and start again. Why not try honest work? It's not so bad, they say, once you get broke in." He rose and shook hands with Feuerstein. "So long," he said. "Good luck! Don't forget!" And again he winked and waggled his thumb in the direction of the penitentiary.
Feuerstein went to his lodgings, put on all the clothes he could wear without danger of attracting his landlady's attention, filled his pockets and the crown of his hat with small articles, and fled to Hoboken.
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