Montague looked surprised. “You mean you
don’t know?”
“I mean,” was the answer, “that
I wouldn’t feel at liberty to tell, even if
I did know.”
And Montague stared at him; he had not been prepared
for this frankness.
“It never occurred to me,” the other continued,
“that that was a matter which could make any
difference to you.”
“Why—” began Montague.
“Pray understand me, Mr. Montague,” said
the Judge. “It seemed to me that this was
obviously a just case, and it seemed so to you.
And the only other matter that I thought you had a
right to be assured of was that it was seriously meant.
Of that I felt assured. It did not seem to me
of any importance that there might be interested individuals
behind Mr. Hasbrook. Let us suppose, for instance,
that there were some parties who had been offended
by the administration of the Fidelity, and were anxious
to punish it. Could a lawyer be justified in
refusing to take a just case, simply because he knew
of such private motives? Or, let us assume an
extreme case—a factional fight within the
company, as you say has been suggested to you.
Well, that would be a case of thieves falling out;
and is there any reason why the public should not
reap the advantage of such a situation? The men
inside the company are the ones who would know first
what is going on; and if you saw a chance to use such
an advantage in a just fight—would you
not do it?”
So the Judge went on, gracious and plausible—and
so subtly and exquisitely corrupting! Underneath
his smoothly flowing sentences Montague could feel
the presence of one fundamental thought; it was unuttered
and even unhinted, but it pervaded the Judge’s
discourse as a mood pervades a melody. The young
lawyer had got a big fee, and he had a nice easy case;
and as a man of the world, he could not really wish
to pry into it too closely. He had heard gossip,
and felt that his reputation required him to be disturbed;
but he had come, simply to be smoothed down the back
and made at ease, and enabled to keep his fee without
losing his good opinion of himself.
Montague quit, because he concluded that it was not
worth while to try to make himself understood.
After all, he was in the case now, and there was nothing
to be gained by a breach. Two things he felt
that he had made certain by the interview—first,
that his client was a “dummy,” and that
it was really a case of thieves falling out; and second,
that he had no guarantee that he might not be left
in the lurch at any moment—except the touching
confidence of the Judge in some parties unknown.
Montague came home with his mind made up that there
was nothing he could do except to be more careful
next time. For this mistake he would have to
pay the price.
He had still to learn what the full price was.
The day after his return there came a caller—Mr.
John C. Burton, read his card. He proved to be
a canvassing agent for the company which published
the scandal-sheet of Society. They were preparing
a de luxe account of the prominent families of New
York; a very sumptuous affair, with a highly exclusive
set of subscribers, at the rate of fifteen hundred
dollars per set. Would Mr. Montague by any chance
care to have his family included?
