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 man against you. So we prepare ourselves, naturally, to beat that man, in this case, Mr. Clarke.

"More than two years ago, when he comes here and enters the state's attorney's office, I know that some day he will be against me; some day, the innocence or guilt of a man in jail—maybe his life or death—depends on how well Max Elmen knows Assistant State's Attorney Clarke's strong sides and his weak. So I say to my girl, who keeps up this book, 'Clippings on Mr. Calvin Clarke, please.' And here he is. Here even is his old house. Look! And all that reading about it. Here is his mamma in front of the house. . . ."

Unnoticed by Joan Daisy, who was gazing at the pages cut from a newspaper rotogravure, Max Elmen lifted the hook of his telephone receiver and immediately the bell rang upon business which called both Max and his son from the room, leaving Joan Daisy deep in a big leather chair with the old Clarke homestead, on the bank of the Merrimac, before her.

It was a sepia reproduction of a large photograph taken upon a tranquil, sunny, autumn afternoon. No time of day was indicated, and Joan Daisy did not know directions in the picture, but the mood was so surely of afternoon that she never questioned it. Autumn was apparent from fallen leaves upon the path, from the thinned boughs of the big trees. Smoke, which spoke of an open hearth fire, stood in the still air above the old chimney; but frost was not yet come, for flowers bloomed beside the pickets of the fence and the woman in the garden was without cloak over her house dress.

She was a gray-haired woman, strong and straight-standing, with a spare body and calm, thoughtful face, tranquil as the house which was hers. Peace and permanence pervaded the place, and Joan Daisy felt the unchanging age of it before she was conscious of reading: