Chapter III: Part I (2)

--"So, of course, I advised the District Attorney to adjourn the matter for a week, and he did it. In the meantime I began to see daylight, and I told him to adjourn it again. But Mackenzie either saw the point or suspected something, for he fought like a devil against further delay, and we only got three days. Three days! Good lord--I had to have two weeks. And, to make things worse, yesterday old Judge Masterton was unexpectedly assigned to hold court, and Geddes is the only man in town who can approach Masterton on a delicate matter of this kind. But Geddes wasn't at home, and for nearly a day we couldn't get on his trail. Then we learned he was in Buffalo, but we couldn't find the District Attorney to get his consent to retaining Geddes. My God, we sweated blood, but we couldn't find him--and every hour was precious. Finally Glenning had to start for Buffalo without the necessary consent. Two hours later I located the District Attorney, got what I wanted, and then learned Geddes had left Buffalo for Albany! Well, it was one chance in a thousand, but I wired Glenning on the express, caught it before it reached Albany--and Geddes is retained! What do you think of that?"

There was no response from the bed, and Hertzog bent forward to see if the patient was asleep, but stopped as the laboured speech of the sick man reached him.

"And Geddes--he will apply for another adjournment?"

"Yes, and win it, too. He's got Judge Masterton in his pocket, I tell you!"

"I don't--I'm not sure--I understand."

"Can't you see that Horton's sentence will expire before the motion for new trial can be heard?"

"Yes--but----"

The sick man raised himself on his elbow, and stared at his visitor.

"Well, when a man's served his sentence, the Court won't entertain an application for a new trial. So there won't be any public discussion of Horton's interesting yarns. See? Pretty good, isn't it? You'll have to study law when you get well, Constable. I tell you it pays. Tricks in all trades, you know, and there's nothing like---- Why, Constable, old man, what's the matter? Here, Nurse! Nurse! Come and look after your patient. He's struck me and he's trying to get out of his bed! You've got him?--Yes, of course I'll go--but I didn't say anything to excite him. All right, I'm going--but what in the world----"

"Write!" panted the sick man as the door closed, "and for God's sake write quickly, Nurse. Are you ready? Yes? Now then----

"_Barton Mackenzie,
"99 Wall Street_.

"_Another adjournment fatal. Constable dying. Makes full
confession. See him at once._

"Wire it, Nurse, wire it, and--let no one know! I thought I had done enough--but I'll do it--I'll beat them yet. Help me to live--till--he comes!"

IN HIS OWN BEHALF.

"Well, Clancy, your case is on the Day Calendar, and is likely to be reached this week."

"'Tis thankful Oi am, Sorr."

Michael Clancy's two hundredweight of flesh and bones rested in my most reliable office chair, and Michael Clancy's huge hands were clasped over his capacious stomach, while his outstretched legs were crossed in a settled attitude.

Clancy had been entrusted to me by a sympathetic House Physician of an up-town hospital. The story made a "negligence case."

I had taken up the matter merely out of good nature, but the old man was a character, and I soon became interested in his personality.

For two years he had been a regular visitor at my office, ostensibly to make inquiries as to the progress of his law suit, but really, I think, for social recreation. A litigation does not advance very rapidly in a New York Court for the first two years, and he knew this at the outset, but his calls were made with a regularity which suggested routine. If he chanced to come in while I was busy he never interrupted, but sat in the outer offices chatting with the clerks until such time as he judged his social duty had been discharged.

Clancy's confidence in me was certainly gratifying, but it took the form of completely transferring to my shoulders all responsibility for the case. His attitude toward it was that of a friend interested but not especially involved in the outcome. Whenever he referred to it, which was not often, he spoke of it as "yur kase," as though he had washed his hands of it but wished me well. There was no question about his gratitude, but his idea of expressing this was to put himself wholly in my care and give as little trouble as possible.

I once thought that the possession of another's confidence was a proper matter for self-congratulation, but I have never felt quite the same about this since I finished Clancy's case.

Michael's injuries had completely incapacitated him for work and his massive frame had taken on flesh until the ponderous body made his head appear ridiculously small. His clean-shaven face was round, his eyes were almost tiny, and his mouth was like that of a child.

Although loquacious to a degree, his delivery was slow, and whenever he talked to me his every word was accompanied by an apologetic smile, so that even when he spoke of his troubles his cheeks wore a "permanent puff."

"Have you ever been in a court, Michael?" I asked as Clancy sat by my desk smiling his benedictions upon my news of an early trial.

"Oi hov not, Sorr--leastways not since Dolan's Nannie wuz afther bein' kilt be Beagan's pup."

I did not investigate Clancy's experience in that _cause celebre_, although I saw reminiscence in his eye.

"I think we better go over your testimony, Clancy," I said. "It's two years since the accident occurred and you may have forgotten details--I'm sure I have. But you remember making this affidavit at the time--do you not?"

Clancy looked at the paper in my hand and then cast a knowing glance in my direction.

"Am Oi ter say--'Yiz'--Sorr?"

"Why you're to tell the truth, of course," I answered rather sharply. "But you must remember swearing to this."

"Must Oi now, Sorr? Thot's all right thin. But whisper, Oi only remimber a shlip av a gurl comin' in an' makin' little burd thracks in a bit av a book an' you spakin' to her thot pleasant-loike--'twas fascinayted Oi wuz."

I began to foresee trouble with this willing witness and to view Clancy in a new light. However I tried explanation.

"That was the stenographer taking down this affidavit," I answered.

"Wuz it now, Sorr? Oi'll not forgit ut."

I felt somewhat embarrassed by the gleam of cunning in Clancy's little eyes, but I pretended not to notice it and continued:

"I'll read the statement to you and that will refresh your memory. Then we can go over the questions you are liable to be asked."

"'Tis as you loike, Sorr."

Clancy settled himself, with resignation rather than interest expressed in his good-natured face, but I knew he was all attention.

"_City and County of New York ss:_" I began.

"Shure, Counsellor, Oi niver said thot. Faith, Oi want ter hilp yiz with yur kase, but sorra a wurd loike thim iver passed me lips."

"O, never mind, Clancy!" I exclaimed, silently cursing my indiscretion. "That's only a legal phrase with which every affidavit begins."

"All right, Sorr. 'Tis for you ter know."

Again Clancy assumed his attitude of resignation and I read on:

"_Michael Clancy being duly sworn deposes and says that he
resides at No. -- West Ninety-third Street, in the City of
New York, and that on the 15th day of May, 1896, he was in
the employ of the Cavendish Tool Company._"

"Thrue for you, Sorr--an' bad cess ter thim," commented Clancy.

"_That previous to May 15, 1896, he had been in the employ
of said Company for nine years_----"

"'Twas not so long, Sorr, for whin me sisther-in-law Theresa's sicond child, she thot aftherwards married Bicie Sullivan's lad, wuz sick at th' toime av me wife's brother's wake, Oi stayed from wurrk two days fur ter luk ter th' child an' so----"

"O, well--that's near enough--say nine years," I interrupted.

"Oi'll say whativer you want, Sorr--but, be th' same token, 'tis thruth Oi do be tellin' you now--betwane oursilves loike."

I looked sternly at Clancy's rotund countenance. This case was looming up pregnant with possibilities in the presence of a witness with ready-made testimony and confidential truths. Clancy as a character was all right, but, as a client? I began to be alarmed. This had to be stopped.

"Now, understand once and for all, Clancy," I exclaimed almost threateningly, "I don't want you to tell anything at any time except the truth."

Clancy relapsed again.

"'Tis for you ter know, Sorr," was all he said.

I looked at the man with desperation in my eyes.

"Now, Michael, listen to me. If there's anything really wrong in the affidavit, stop me; but, if it's unimportant, don't let's waste time on it. Now, where were we? Here it is:--'_had been in the employ of said Company for nine years_----'"

"Av coorse, thot's moindin' what Oi do be afther tellin' you, Sorr."

"Good lord, man! For _nearly_ nine years then. Will that satisfy you? We'll never finish if you keep this up!"

"'Tis dumb Oi am, Sorr."

Clancy's big hands waved off further reproaches in a little gesture half soothing, half disclaiming.

Then all intelligence faded from his face, and he sat with closed eyes, punctuating my sentences with nodding head, as I continued from the text of the affidavit.

"_During those nine years_" (Clancy winced, but kept
silent), "_he was engaged as a porter in the Company's main
office, in Fulton Street. On the morning of May 15, 1896,
while engaged in sorting merchandise on the fourth floor of
said building, a shelf on the north side of the room gave
way, and a keg of nails fell upon his spine, inflicting
serious injuries_.

"_Deponent did not erect said shelf, nor was the same
erected under his direction, nor was the merchandise upon it
placed there by deponent or deponent's orders._

"_Deponent further avers that he never knew the said shelf
was unsafe, although the Superintendent had been told that
one of its brackets needed repairing._"

I continued reading the rest of the long statement without interruption from Clancy. Even when I finished he made no comment, and I thought him depressed in spite of his smile, so I spoke up cheerfully.

"That's the story, Michael. It all comes back clearly enough now, doesn't it? There's nothing like having these affidavits made out at the time, so one can recall all the facts. Now there's very little more work to be done. You remember I had diagrams made of the room where you were working, so we have those, and the Doctor's sent me word that he's ready at any time. There were no other witnesses, you say? Well, then, let me hear you tell the story in your own way, without any prompting from me. Begin by describing the place. Now, go on."

Clancy smiled contentedly, leaned forward in his chair and slowly rubbed his knees with the palms of his hands.

"Beyant th' dure," he began, "there do be a laarge room, with foive windows in ut, an' a stairkase ter th' left hand soide goin' upstairs. In th' cintre av this room they do hov two rows av stoof an' th' same is on shilves foreninst an' behoind thim----"

The picture was not entirely clear, but I spoke up hopefully:

"Yes; and in this room you worked?"

"Oi niver did, Sorr."

"Then describe the room where you did work," I answered, wearily. "No other room is of any importance."

"Will you leave me tell ut in my own way, Sorr?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sorr, 'twas this way ut wuz. There do be a gang av min on th' fourth flure handlin' stoof thot's afther comin' outer th' elevaytor. Th' elevaytor do be nixt th' stairkase, an' th' min stand in loine an' roll th' barruls wan to anither clane acrost th' flure. Th' furst feller do be called 'the guide,' an'----"

"And you worked with these men?" I interposed.

"Shure Oi niver had onythin' at all to do with thim. But minny a toime Oi've seen thim----"

"Wait," I said, "this won't do. I'll start at the beginning, and ask you questions just as though you were in Court, and you answer them."

Clancy looked a bit troubled, but he shifted himself in his chair and said, "Yiz, Sorr," brightly enough.

"Mr. Clancy," I began in my best jury manner, "where do you reside?"

A light gleamed in the witness's eyes.

"City an' County av New York--SS!" he burst out proudly.

I dropped the paper on my desk and groaned aloud. But when I saw the look of crushing disappointment on Clancy's face I forced a smile and said,

"Try to forget that, Michael. It has nothing whatever to do with your testimony. Now let's begin again--Where do you reside?"

"Shure you know, Sorr."

"Yes, I know, Clancy, but the jury doesn't and we're supposed to be in Court. Answer just as you would before the jury. Now--who employed you in May, 1896?"

"A boonch av scuts--no less!"

I sighed hopelessly. It was useless to continue this game.

"Perhaps we've had about enough for to-day, Michael," I said. "Go to Court to-morrow and listen to some witnesses testify. You'll soon get the idea. Then come down to the office in the afternoon and I'll have some questions written out so that you'll know about what you're to be asked. There's nothing like thorough preparation. By the way, do you want to add anything to the affidavit? The facts are all right as far as they go, I suppose?"

Clancy hesitated, wiped his mouth once or twice--smiled out of the window and ended by a general shift of his bulk. But he did not speak.

"What is it?" I asked encouragingly.

A gesture of disclaimer, almost coy this time, prefaced his reply.

"Shure Oi don't loike ter throuble you, Sorr, an' 'tis as loike as not to be wan av thim deetales you was spakin' av----"

"Never mind, what is it?"

"Well, Sorr, Oi don't seem ter call ter moinde th' lad thot's been afther sayin' an' doin' some av thim things."

The excitement had evidently been too much for Michael's head, but to soothe him I asked,

"What lad, Clancy?"

"Daypont, Sorr."

"Daypont?" I repeated.

Then I picked up the affidavit, and light dawned upon me.

"You don't mean _deponent_, do you?"

"'Tis the same, Sorr--Shure he niver wurrked fer thim in all me toime."

A penholder broke, but I slowly minced a blotter before I trusted myself to explain.

"Deponent means you, Clancy."

"Is ut me?"

"Certainly. For instance----" here I picked up the affidavit.--"This reads '_Deponent did not erect said shelf_', and that means, you did not erect it,----"

"But Begorra, that's just what Oi did, Sorr----"

"What!" I shrieked.

"Oi builded----"

"You built the shelf that fell?"

My voice was desperately calm but the pencil in my hands was playing a tattoo on the desk.

"Shure, Oi did, Sorr."

"Then why in the name of common sense, man, didn't you say so before?" I burst out.

"Shure Oi didn't loike ter throuble yiz, an' you readin' it out so beautiful-loike. An' faith, Oi thought 'twas some scut av a Daypont you wuz spakin' av as not doin'----"

Clancy looked at me and my face must have been awesome, for he stopped with mouth agape.

"_Nor was the merchandise upon said shelf placed there by deponent?_" I read inquiringly.

"'Twas Oi that put ut there av a Friday marnin,' Sorr, an'----"

"_Deponent further avers_," I continued with fearful calm, "_that he never knew the said shelf was unsafe?_"

"Shure 'twas the day befure Oi was spakin' to th' Super, an' ses Oi to him--O'Toole, ses Oi, the shilf foreninst the dure is broke, ses Oi, but Oi've stooffed a bit of sthick in fur a nail, ses Oi, an' 'twill holt good an' ut don't come down, Oi ses. Moike, ses he----"

"For Heaven's sake man, stop! You must have known all this two years ago--why didn't you speak then?"

"'Twas afraid av throublin' yiz with deetales Oi wuz. Do ut make any difference, Sorr?"

"Difference!" I burst out. "Your case is absurd--utterly impossible and absurd! Why, man--you haven't got a leg to stand on!"

Clancy looked at his feet for a moment.

"'Tis me spoine----" he began.

Then he stopped and smiled.

"'Tis for you to know, Sorr," he added, sadly.

I didn't laugh, for I saw tears in Clancy's childlike eyes.

But I discontinued that action, and my affidavits now read with unprofessional clarity.

HIS HONOUR.[A]

[Footnote A: The Judge who hears litigated motions does not now sign ex parte orders. The inside history of this change in the practice may some day be found in a biography. Meanwhile this tale is told "without prejudice."]

Van was out of temper. Van, the calm squelcher of office boys--the recognised saviour of managing clerks--the patient instructor of sophomoric attorneys--the courteous Guide, Philosopher and Friend for all busy members of the New York Bar--Van, whose serenity and sanity had withstood some thirty years of service as Chambers Clerk, was in ill humour.

Unusual as this was, it might have been explained if the Judge who throws papers on the floor had been upon the Bench. But his Honour was presiding over another Court. Martin, therefore, put it down to the weather, which was hot, and resigned himself to waiting, which was wearisome.

The Court Room was stuffy as usual, and crowded as always. Martin languidly studied the lawyers about him, trying to guess the kind of business each represented. Here he prophesied a struggle for "costs," and there a contest for "time." In one face he read the cunning of the technical trickster, in another the earnest belief in a Cause, and idly took to betting with himself on his prognostications.

The low droning of voices had a soothing note, and the hot atmosphere of the room soon set him nodding. A moment more and he was out of the Court, far away from the lawyers--at the east end of Long Island, with the strength and vigour of early Autumn in the air. For some seconds he was dimly conscious of a man standing near him asking an oft-repeated question. Then he woke with a start and saw Allison.

"Do you always sleep with your eyes open?"

"Ye--yes," he yawned, rubbing the optics in question, "it's a trick I learned from a front seat and a dull lecturer at college."

"Well, what are you doing here beside dreaming?"

"Waiting to get some papers from Van."

"Why don't you get them then, and go home to sleep?"

"Van's off his trolley to-day. Got to wait."

"Um.--'Furioso' on the Bench?"

"No.--Hot weather, I guess."

"Ah. Who's on deck then?"

"I don't know, and Van couldn't, or wouldn't, tell."

"Well, I was about to ask you to take charge of a little matter for me, but I'm afraid I oughtn't to keep you out of bed."

"What's it about?"

"Nothing but opposing an application for a bill of particulars. I don't care very much whether I win or lose. Merely contest it as a matter of form. You can submit it without argument, if you'd rather, but I've another case in Part IV., and can't wait here. Will you do it, you dormouse?"

"Yes--provided you won't damn me if you lose."

"Don't care a cuss."

"All right."

"Thank you. Good-bye."

Martin glanced lazily at the papers Allison tossed into his lap. _Phelps_ vs. _Orson_? What number was it on the calendar? He pulled the _Law Journal_ out of his pocket and consulted the list of "motions." Twenty-second case? Good lord--Allison had buncoed him! If he argued that motion he'd have to stay in the stuffy Court Room all morning. But he wouldn't argue it--he'd give the papers to Van, and let him hand them up to the Court when the case was called. Martin stuffed the documents into his pocket, and lolling back in his chair, tried to regain those scenes from which Allison had rudely torn him. To further this, he rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes. But try as he might, he could not again rid himself of his surroundings, for there was more movement all over the room as the waiting crowd grew restless, and directly back of him two men whispered with maddening persistency. For a time Martin tried to fuse their sibilants into the general buzz, but failing in this, began to listen to their conversation. In a few seconds he ceased to hear any of the other sounds going on about him.

--"Then Van doesn't know," one of the men asserted. "I tell you Colton's ill and he's been assigned to take his place. He's never sat here before? Well, of course not. That's just the point. You've got a head like a tack! Now listen to what I say, and, for God's sake, don't make a mess of it. The order's in a green cover like this----"

The speaker paused and Martin almost turned, but checked himself in time.

"No, there ain't many this colour.--You can't miss it if you keep awake. It'll be handed to Van sometime before recess. When he gives it to His Nibs you watch it like a cat, and the minute he signs it make for the telephone and notify 'em at the office. They'll keep the wire open. Now d'ye think you've got sense enough to work this thing straight?"

The other man made no response, but probably nodded, for his companion continued:

"All right then. I'm o double f. But remember if you botch it, you'll be wanting a new job."

The speaker rose and passed before Martin, who languidly glanced at him and then strolled into the Rotunda. Mullin the process-server stood, as usual, near the door. Martin touched his arm.

"Mullin," he began, "didn't you want to bet me a few days ago that you knew every man who entered this Court House?"

"Sure. Wanter take me up?"

"Yes," answered Martin, hurrying him toward the right hand stairway. "Bet you a good cigar you won't know the man in grey clothes we'll see coming down from the other side."

They had just reached the first landing when the person in question passed through the open hall below.

Mullin laughed.

"I'll take a 'Carolina Perfecto,'" he said and began to move up the steps again.

"Do you know him?" questioned Martin, slowly following.

"Sure. Everybody knows him. Give us something harder."

"Well, who is he?"

"Nevis--of course."

"Who's he?"

"Boss reporter of _The Guardian_."

"O, I thought he was a lawyer."

Martin spoke in a tone of disappointment.

"Nope. Too smart for that!" laughed the process-server.

"Well, I owe you a cigar, I suppose. We can't get a Carolina Perfecto here, but I'll see you when Court adjourns, or if not then, some other day."

"All right, Mr. Martin, your credit's good, I guess."

Nevis of _The Guardian_? What did that dirty sheet have to do with Court orders in green covers or any other covers? What sort of boys worked for such papers nowadays? Martin had himself served an apprenticeship in the newspaper world and still felt a lively interest in the ways of Park Row. He would have a look at the cub reporter left on guard. With this purpose in view he returned to the Court Room, but the moment he entered the door the object of his quest was completely forgotten. The judge had already ascended the Bench, and His Honour was Charles Blagden, Esq.

Martin slipped into a rear seat and watched the youthful face of the man behind the desk.

There was no love lost between Martin and the Hon. Charles Blagden. They had met as lawyers and Blagden had been the victor; they had met as men to differ on every matter of opinion and taste; they had met as rivals and Martin had written a letter of congratulation which had cost him the bitterest thoughts of his life. But Fortune continued to shower gifts upon her favourite and not very long after his marriage, an appointment to a vacancy on the Supreme Court Bench made Blagden the youngest Judge in the City.

Charles Blagden was a careful lawyer and he made a capable Judge--so capable, indeed, that his political party had just nominated him as its Judicial candidate for the coming November elections.

But not satisfied with the start which Fortune had thus given, the hero-worshippers set out to make Fame meet him half way.

What silly discoveries are made in the light of one small success; what senseless tributes are inspired by achievement--no matter what the agency. Blagden's capability as a lawyer became "distinguished ability" on the tongues of hundreds of his fellow-citizens who never knew him. There were dozens of prophets who had always "marked him out," and scores of men ready with stories and anecdotes of his prowess and skill.

Martin had watched Blagden's career with a jealousy but little removed from positive hatred, and every word of this indiscriminate praise fretted him almost past endurance. He felt himself as able a man as his rival, he knew many lawyers more worthy of distinction and, smarting under the injustice of these sudden acclamations, he began to grow contemptuous of public esteem.

It was not long, however, before he awoke to the danger of brooding over such thoughts. The world was big enough for them both, and the mighty metropolis was a world so wide that the blotting out of any face was only the matter of a step in the crowd. This man should not spoil or embitter his life.

From the moment of that resolution Blagden disappeared from his horizon, and Martin began to view life again from his normal standpoint.

It was only when business threatened to bring him into Blagden's Court that he experienced the old feeling of bitterness. But then it returned with a rush. One such lesson had been sufficient to warn him however, and Martin thereafter appeared before Judge Blagden by proxy only.

It was just as well, he thought, as he felt the hot blood surging through his veins, that Allison didn't insist upon his arguing _Phelps_ vs. _Orson_. It would have been impossible to address that Self-Satisfied Piece of Humanity with respect. Thank goodness he could escape by handing the papers to the Clerk!

He rose and passed along the rear of the Court Room. In the far corner sat a newspaper artist sketching the Judge and the scene about his desk. Martin glanced sharply at the man, but he was absorbed in his work and obviously not on the outlook for green-covered law papers. Nearer the front, however, sat a young fellow studying every movement behind the rail, and sometimes even rising nervously from his seat in his efforts to keep a clear view. This was undoubtedly the youth whose place depended on his vigilant watch of the Bench. What the devil was it all about? In an instant his old newspaper instinct had carried everything before it and Martin passed down the middle aisle, seating himself immediately behind the young reporter.

"_Phelps_ vs. _Orson_."

Martin started at the sound of the Judge's voice, every fibre in his body tingling with instant defiance.

The defendant's attorney answered "Ready," but Martin made no response. He knew he did not intend to argue the case and should promptly state the fact.

"_Phelps_ vs. _Orson_?" repeated the Justice inquiringly.

"Ready!" answered Martin, yielding to the call of sheer perversity.

It was childish, petty, absurd--and he knew it. But at that moment to defy custom, to oppose everything and everybody, to hamper and obstruct the Court in every possible manner, no matter how futile, seemed absolutely essential to the assertion of his independence and the maintenance of his self-respect.

Some one vacated a seat immediately in front of the nervous reporter who hastily gathered his papers together and moved into the empty chair. Martin at once rose and took the journalist's place. As he did so he felt something crackle beneath him, and rising picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the seat. It was a sheet torn from a reporter's pad, and as he lazily unfolded it Martin saw it was covered with writing in a weak, boyish hand. To the initiated the scribbles were unmistakable studies in newspaper captions or headings--the "makeup" of which Martin recalled as a fad of his cub-reporter days.

The first attempt was as follows:

"A CANDIDATE CORALLED."

Then came several other "settings:"

"A SUPREME COURT SCANDAL."

"A JUDICIAL JUDAS."

"A DANIEL COME TO GRIEF."

This last effort apparently satisfied the embryo city editor, for his sub-headings were written below:

"AN EXTRAORDINARY COURT ORDER
UNEARTHED BY _The Guardian_."

"It Bears the Initials of the Hon. Charles Blagden, Candidate for Judicial Office."

"A Searching Investigation to be Instituted. Lawyers Indignant. Litigants Astonished."

Martin read the words with savage satisfaction.

So, the Hon. Justice was playing tricks, was he--and not very good tricks either? He was on the point of being exposed--was he? Well, it was about time something happened to those noiseless wheels of the little tin god! People were beginning to believe there was something miraculous in his transit. It had long been heretical to suggest either pull or push. But both agencies have to be paid for in one way or another, and at some time.--To pay whom or what was this green-covered order required?--What a shock it would be for the worshippers to see their metal divinity wobbling on his stand and to hear the shrieking of his squeaky rollers! Fortunately for him some of his triumphs were secure, but it would be interesting for at least one person to discover---- No, she would never discover anything. Charlie would tell her it was all right--and that would make it so.--"Charlie," indeed!--Ugh!

A sharp movement in front of him aroused Martin from his bitter musing. The young reporter was leaning forward in his chair, staring at a little clean-shaven Hebrew who had entered the room and was leaning on the rail, a green-covered legal paper in his hand.

Van took the document from the messenger, shook it open and placed it at the bottom of the pile of orders on the Judge's desk. The Court had already begun to hear arguments, and as the Counsel talked the Judge occasionally took up one of these orders and signed it. Clerks kept entering the room from time to time, handing papers and orders to Van, who added them to the rapidly-increasing pile on the Judge's desk.

Meanwhile Martin stared at the green edge of the order in which _The Guardian_ took such a lively interest. How did that paper come to know its contents? _The Guardian_ was politically opposed to the Judge's party--was, indeed, the semi-official organ of the enemy. It could not be in the confidence of the Judge's friends. No avenue of exposure would be more carefully watched than that which led to the columns of _The Guardian_. There must be a traitor in the camp. Or perhaps some honest man, despising underhand methods, had given the clue to the most effective police. But if an honest man desired to protect his party, would he not frustrate the scheme rather than expose it after it was accomplished? Yes, some traitor must be selling information to the opposition. _The Guardian_ certainly would not hesitate to buy dirty secrets. It was savagely partisan--unscrupulous and daring. It fairly slobbered with the froth of sensation--lived on scandal, and obtained its pabulum by any and every means. Thus far there had been little to feed upon in the career of the Hon. Charles Blagden. But it would not shrink from providing itself with carrion if a touch of one of its underground wires would suffice.--Might not _The Guardian_ know the history of the green-covered order at first hand?

Martin dismissed the thought again and again, but it gathered strength and substance and forced itself upon him. He recalled the words of the Boss Reporter about Blagden's never having sat at Chambers before. He had explained that that was "just the point." And the point was--? Obviously that the work at Chambers was hurried, and that a novice would be apt to sign papers without due deliberation.

What could be easier for a sheet like _The Guardian_ than to trump up a legal proceeding of some sort, and to concoct, with the aid of cunning lawyers, an order unobjectionable on its face, but which would compromise the reputation of any Judge who signed it? If the plot miscarried, the conspirators could readily cover their tracks and make good their escape.--It was a dangerous game but not a new one.

And if all this were so, what had he, Martin, to do with it?

Of course if Blagden was playing tricks he deserved to get caught and no one but the hero-worshippers could be expected to cry.--But if he was being tricked?--That was just the question to be decided. He, Martin, was merely a spectator, interested in the event, it is true, but still only an onlooker.--Was that true? Had not that role been forfeited when he acquired special information? Was his attitude a perfectly passive one? If any other man than Blagden was on the Bench would he not instantly communicate what he had heard? Would he feel no disappointment whatsoever if Blagden refused to sign the order? Frankly--was he not waiting to see his enemy walk into what he believed was a trap?

Martin flushed at the silent self-accusation and instantly pronounced it absurd. What could he do? Any man who goes on the Bench has to assume grave responsibilities and take the risk with the honours. Blagden's attitude had always been a silent boast of needing no help from anyone. Would not interference give him an opportunity for retorting that "he had the office and Martin the officiousness." How he would roll that under his tongue!--No, Blagden could take care of himself. He would never thank anyone for playing nurse for him.

The papers on the Judge's desk were piling higher and higher, and he began to sign or reject them more rapidly as the time wore on. Martin glanced at _The Guardian's_ order. It was still buried under a dozen others.

Why did he think of it as "_The Guardian's_ order"? He had no proof of the matter. But were not his suspicions strong enough to excuse a warning? What did he fear? A snub? Well, that was better than "_the laughter of the soul against itself when conscience has condemned it, which the soul never hears once in its fulness without hearing it forever after_."

How often he had repeated those lines to himself! What a hopeless, haunting sound they had in them! He hated this man--but was he willing to wear the _The Guardian's_ mask and hear forever after the hideous laughter of the soul?

Martin glanced again at the Judge's desk, and then rapidly writing a few words on a piece of paper, folded and addressed it to the Hon. Charles Blagden, and carried it to the Clerk's desk.

Van, restored to his usual good humour, met him with a smile.

"Why didn't you come earlier for your papers, Mr. Martin?" he whispered. "I've had them here for you ever since Court opened."

"Much obliged, Van. Just hand this note up to Judge Blagden--will you?"

"I can't do it, Mr. Martin. His Private Secretary says it's one of his fads. He won't even let us hand him telegrams when he's on the Bench."

"But this is more important than a telegram, Van," replied Martin in a low tone. "Hand it up to him and I'll assume all the responsibility."

"I'd like to oblige you, Mr. Martin, but----"

"You will not be obliging me, Van, but him."

The veteran clerk gazed at the earnest face of the lawyer for a moment, and then reached out his hand for the letter.

"I'll try it, Mr. Martin," he whispered.

It was some moments before the Justice noticed Van standing near his chair, and raised his eyes inquiringly. The clerk held out the folded piece of paper, but Blagden frowned and impatiently waved the official away. For a moment Van lingered, but when the Magistrate swung his chair so as to turn his back on the interruption, he rejoined Martin and handed him the rejected note, with a smile and a shrug.

Martin took it and sat down again with a distinct feeling of relief. He had done all he could. If there was anything wrong with the order he had tried his best to call it to the Judge's attention, and that pompous fool had rejected the opportunity. He might as well hand up the _Phelps_ vs. _Orson_ papers and go back to the office.

Martin pulled the small bundle out of his pocket and studied the indorsement. _Phelps_ against _Orson_? Why, that must be the case Dick Phelps had talked about for half an hour at the Club the other night. Of course it was--Allison was his attorney. Well, that was rather odd. Martin wrote "_submitted_" on the first paper in the bundle, and then glanced at the Bench. The green order was fourth from the top.

Why the devil did his heart keep thumping with excitement! He had done more than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would do. Anything more would be asinine interference for which he would have time to repent at leisure. He'd get right out of that stifling Court Room--

"_Phelps_ against _Orson_" called the Judge.

For a heart-beat Martin hesitated. Then he rose to his feet and walking directly to the Counsel's table slipped the rubber band from his bundle of papers and sat down.

As his opponent began to speak, Martin lazily read through his papers, making an occasional note on a loose sheet of legal cap. When he looked up again the green order was second from the top. Then he shoved his chair back and watched the Judge who, as the Counsel ceased speaking, took up another paper, leaving the green-covered order at the top of the pile.

Martin glanced at the clock and noted that recess would begin in twenty-five minutes. Then he sat quietly and waited till the Judge, surprised at the unusual pause, looked at him, and nodded.

"Proceed, Mr. Martin."

Martin gazed fixedly at the Bench and rose with great deliberation and dignity.

"If it please the Court," he began solemnly, "this is, on its face, a simple motion for a bill of particulars--part of that sparring for position which precedes every legal encounter. But at the outset I ask the closest possible attention from the Court, for before I have finished I expect to show that this apparently simple motion cloaks a matter of vital importance, not only to these litigants but to the public at large."

Judge Blagden leaned back in his chair and listened to the lawyer with grave attention. The attorney for the defendant stared at the speaker in blank astonishment.

It was, Martin continued impressively, a case in which a knowledge of all the facts was of supreme importance. To understand certain actions one must follow the wires that control them, underground or overhead, until the hand which clutches them be discovered. For this reason he would take the liberty of detailing to the Court the history of the litigation.

Martin then launched into a minute and deliberate recital of the facts. He dwelt upon the private history of the plaintiff, traced his business career from its beginning up to the day of the transaction with the defendants, described the fruitless efforts of the parties to settle their differences out of Court, and the failure of the attorneys to come to any agreement.

At this point the defendant's attorney interrupted, claiming that none of these facts, however interesting they might be, was to be found in the papers, and that Counsel must be confined to what was therein stated.

Martin admitted that, ordinarily, this would be proper, but in this case he asked for "great latitude for grave reasons." Then, with marked emphasis, he recapitulated all the various points he had detailed and asked the Court to note their important bearing upon what he was about to disclose.

The opposing Counsel shifted uneasily in his chair and shook his head in utter bewilderment, and the Justice leaned forward on his desk.

Then Martin picked up the bill of complaint and began to read it with great deliberation. That seemed to break the spell.

"Mr. Martin, I must ask you to come to your point, please," interrupted the Justice.

"I am coming to it now, Sir."

He again took up the complaint and once more began to read it aloud.

Judge Blagden revolved his chair restlessly from side to side and again interrupted--this time impatiently.

"You have already occupied almost twenty minutes, Mr. Martin. This is not, you know, the Court of Appeals."

"Where your Honour's decision can be reviewed if incorrect? I am aware of that, Sir."

The Magistrate looked sharply at the speaker, who regarded him with a calm, cold glance.

"The Court cannot allow you to consume much more time, Sir. The decision of this motion is largely a matter of discretion----"

"Which your Honour will remember is the better part of valour."

Judge Blagden frowned angrily at the speaker and picked up the green-covered order.

The Court Room was hushed to almost breathless stillness.

"Go on with your argument, Mr. Martin, but be brief." The words came from behind the paper in the Judge's hand.

Martin instantly sat down.

The Judge stopped reading and peered over the desk.

"Well," he queried, "have you finished?"

"No, Sir, I have not," answered Martin positively.

"Then proceed, Sir."

"When the Court honours me with the courtesy of its attention I will proceed--but not until then."

The answer was a challenge, sharp and decisive.

"I am listening, Sir," retorted Blagden, in a tone of marked annoyance, "and I have been listening much longer than should be necessary. Get to your point at once."

"If the Court is willing to undertake a divided duty," Martin paused until the Judge's eyes met his--"I am unwilling to receive a divided attention."

"The Court has no inclination to hear further suggestions from Counsel on this point."

The Judge took up his pen, dipped it in the ink, and turned to the last page of the green-covered order.

Behind him Martin could hear the cub-reporter tiptoeing to the door.

"Then if the Court will not give me a hearing I demand that it read my brief!"

Martin thundered out the words so fiercely that the audience started perceptibly and the Judge looked up in angry astonishment.

"Sit down, Mr. Martin," he ordered sternly.

"I hand you my brief, Sir," answered Martin, holding out a folded sheet of legal cap, "and request its immediate consideration."

"You may hand it to the clerk, Sir; it will be considered at the proper time."

"I request the Court to read it now."

"The Court will not entertain it at present."

"I demand it as a right!"

"Mr. Martin, you forget yourself."

"You are right, but still I demand that this brief be now read."

Martin leaned over the rail and placed the document upon the Judge's desk.

In the pause that followed, the Magistrate's eyes followed these lines indorsed on the cover of the paper thrust before him:

"_Look out for the green-covered order in your hand. Suspect something fraudulent. Parties now in Court watching you. Am talking against time._"

Then the stillness of the room was broken by the Justice speaking in a constrained voice:

"The Court will now adjourn for recess. In the meantime, Mr. Martin, I will consider your brief."

* * * * *

It was some days after the crowd had ceased discussing the way Blagden "got called down by Martin" that the latter wrote a short reply to the former's long epistle.

"_Mr. Martin respectfully acknowledges Judge Blagden's
letter of the 10th inst., and is gratified to learn that the
warning was not wholly uncalled for. The Justice, however,
may rest assured that he is under no obligation to Mr.
Martin, whose sole concern in the matter was his honour--but
not His Honour Charles Blagden._"

AN ABSTRACT STORY.

Williams ought to have known that whenever Meyer wanted a title searched he shopped with it until competition eliminated the margin of profit. But whether he knew this or not it was perfectly plain that there was no money in the East Broadway work at the figures he agreed upon. However, year after year the legal arena is gladdened by the advent of certain rosy-cheeked, enthusiastic youths who fancy they can change the instinct of Chatham Square and acquire control of big real estate operators like Meyer, through the simple expedient of doing some of their work for nothing. Moreover, each newcomer thinks he has evolved an entirely novel plan for working up a practice. At first I thought Williams was one of these delightfully optimistic individuals, but subsequent events have demonstrated there was more method in his madness.

Williams was in love with Miss Thornton. Everybody knew it, though, as Parsons said, Miss Thornton didn't seem to know it by heart. The more fool she, I thought, for Williams was a first-rate fellow and a far better man than that doll-faced, shallow chit had any right to expect. I admit it isn't very gallant to speak of a girl in this way, but I sometimes think a little plain truth about the fair sex would make them more fair. Miss Thornton had prettiness enough of a certain kind, she wore her gowns well and looked the girl of good breeding that she was. But beyond that--well, I never could see what made Williams so desperately in love with her. Therefore when R. Castelez Forbes appeared on the scene, though I sympathised with the discomforted swain, I could not really feel very sorry for him.

Where R. Castelez Forbes came from was more or less of a mystery. Mrs. Thornton told me she met him on the "Teutonic" and that he had been "awfully kind" to Daisy and her during the passage. She had invited him to spend a day or two in the Berkshires, and since then they had seen a good deal of him. To my inquiry as to his business Mrs. Thornton replied that he was "something in the manufacturing line" and she believed "quite a rising young fellow." She was a hopelessly silly woman. Mr. Thornton was an able man, but too easy going and good-natured to trouble himself about the antecedents of Miss Daisy's callers.

It did not take much to frighten Williams off. He was sensitive as most manly fellows are when in love. But had he possessed far more self-confidence there was quite enough in the situation to have discouraged him. Miss Thornton and Forbes were constantly together, and although no engagement had been announced most people spoke of it as "an understood thing."

Such was the situation when Meyer brought the East Broadway papers to Williams and inquired his fee for searching the title.

Williams glanced at the contract of sale for a moment, turned to the last deed in the Abstract and promptly named a figure so low that even Meyer feared to ask for a reduction, although he did insist on the work being finished in a week. The bargain was closed then and there, and everybody who heard of it cursed Williams for cutting prices to a point where neither he nor anyone else could hope to make money.

But the last item in the East Broadway Abstract would have explained to the initiated why Williams undertook the work at losing rates, and it certainly excused him for beginning his investigation of the title wrong end foremost. This item read as follows:

} _Warranty Deed, F. & C._
_Reginald C. Forbes_, } _Dated May 1, 1887._
_To_ } _Ack. May 1, 1887._
_Beatrice Gordon Forbes_, } _Rec. May 2, 1887._
} _Cons. $1._

_Conveys premises under examination._

which meant that, at the date named, one Reginald C. Forbes had transferred the East Broadway property to a woman named Forbes at a nominal price. The contract of sale showed that this same Miss or Mrs. Forbes had agreed to sell the property to Meyer.

Within ten minutes after he had received the papers, Williams was hot upon the trail. Within an hour he had learned all he wished to know.

The Register's Office showed that the deed made by Reginald C. Forbes was recorded at the request of Messrs. Harmon & Headly, and at their offices Williams made his first inquiry.

"Yes, I know Mr. Forbes," replied Mr. Harmon--"at least, I did know him. He was a client of mine some years ago. Why do you ask?"

Williams exhibited the Abstract and pointed out the deed in question.

"I recall the transaction," continued the old lawyer, after a moment's thought. "Forbes conveyed the property to his wife for one dollar, in consideration of her releasing him from alimony and dower rights.--Yes, she obtained a divorce from him some time in '86 or '87. I think you'll find her agreement on record, but perhaps Forbes didn't record it. I haven't seen him for years, and don't know what's become of him.--Do I remember what name the initial C stood for? Yes, I believe I do. It had a Spanish sound. Something like Castilian. Castelez? Yes--that was it."

Williams thanked Mr. Harmon and went home to work his way through a maze of tangled thoughts to the conclusion that his duty to his neighbour, Miss Thornton, was to love her far better than himself.

His reasoning was something like this: Miss Thornton had been cruelly deceived. She had honoured a scamp by receiving his attention. Perhaps she had even given him her love. But in any case, humiliation was to be her portion. The blow to her self-esteem she could not escape--but might he not save her pride the lasting sting of even a partial publicity? How could this best be done? To speak to a man of Forbes' character would be a waste of words and give no protection to the girl. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were in Bermuda, and every moment's delay must add insult to the injury. The girl's chaperone was a foolish hysterical old aunt whose idea of action in emergency would probably begin and end in a telegram. What if he undertook the task himself? He was a rival and she might not believe him? There was no chance for disbelief. If she required proofs--they were at hand. His knowledge of her humiliation would make her hate the sight of his face, and she would never forget or forgive it? He would still have saved her something of bitterness, and for this there was no sacrifice he would not make.

Now I do not propose to argue that Williams took the wisest course even if Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were in Bermuda--I am not prepared to say he was not quixotic--I am ready to admit he was disqualified from acting either as tale-bearer or guardian, but I do maintain that in taking upon himself the responsibility of putting the girl in possession of the facts, he showed far more moral courage than nine out of ten men would display under similar circumstances.

Had Miss Thornton's mind been built upon broader lines, she would have appreciated the admirable tact with which Williams handled the whole subject and understood the delicacy and deference which disclosed the truth so gradually that she seemed to discover it for herself. But Miss Thornton's mind was somewhat self-centred, and as she heard his story her pretty face showed nothing but its prettiness. She listened to the words of the man, but took no note of his quiet, sympathetic tone. Suddenly the situation dawned upon her. Her cheeks flushed, her hands, which had been clasped behind her shapely head, fell, and she sat there in the half light of the cozy drawing-room gazing before her without seeing the pained and tenderly anxious glance of the man who stood looking down at her.

"Good night, Miss Thornton.--Won't you even say good-bye?"

There was no answer from the girl who, with elbows on knees and her chin in her hands, stared into the fading fire as though unconscious of his presence.

"Good-bye, then, Miss Thornton, and--and God keep you--dear!"