Legal processes in America were even less known to him, but he was not daunted on that account.  He remembered Sherlock Holmes and Raffles; he recalled Bill Sykes and Dubosc, dodging the operations of justice; and in that romantic chamber that lurks somewhere in every man’s make-up, he felt that classic tradition had armed him with all the preparation necessary for heroic achievement.  He, Chamberlain, was unexpectedly called upon to act as an agent of justice against chicanery and violence, and it was not in him to shirk the task.  His labors, which, for the greater part of his life, had been expended in tracing the evolution of blind fish in inland caves, had not especially fitted him for dealing with the details of such a case as Agatha’s; but they had left him eminently well equipped for discerning right principles and embracing them.

Chamberlain’s first move was to visit Big Simon, who directed him to the house of the justice of the peace, Israel Cady.  Squire Cady, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing an old faded silk hat, was in his side yard endeavoring to coax the fruit down gently from a flourishing pear tree.

“You wait just a minute, if you please, until I get these two plump pears down, and I’ll be right there,” he called courteously, without looking away from his long-handled wire scoop.

Mr. Chamberlain strolled into the yard, and after watching Squire Cady’s exertions for a minute or two, offered to wield the pole himself.

“Takes a pru-uty steady hand to get those big ones off without bruising them,” cautioned the squire.

But Chamberlain’s hand was steadiness itself, and his eyesight much keener than the old man’s.  The result was highly satisfactory.  No less than a dozen ripe pears were twitched off, just in the nick of time, so far as the eater was concerned.

“Well, thank you, sir; thank you,” said Squire Cady.  “That just goes to show what the younger generation can do.  Now then, let’s see.  Got any pockets?”

He picked out six of the best pears and piled them in Chamberlain’s hands, then took off his rusty, old-fashioned hat and filled it with the rest of the fruit.  Chamberlain carefully stowed his treasures into the wide pockets of his tweed suit.

“Now, sir,” Squire Cady said heartily, “we’ll go into my office and attend to business.  I’m not equal to Cincinnatus, whom they found plowing his field, but I can take care of my garden.  Come in, sir, come in.”

Chamberlain followed the tall spare old figure into the house.  The squire disappeared with his pears, leaving his visitor in the narrow hall; but he returned in a moment and led the way into his office.  It was a large, rag-carpeted room, filled with all those worsted knickknacks which women make, and littered comfortably with books and papers.

Squire Cady put on a flowered dressing-gown, drew a pair of spectacles out of a pocket, a bandana handkerchief from another, and requested Chamberlain to sit down and make himself at home.  The two men sat facing each other near a tall secretary whose pigeonholes were stuffed with papers in all stages of the yellowing process.  Squire Cady’s face was yellowing, like his papers, and it was wrinkled and careworn; but his eyes were bright and humorous, and his voice pleasant.  Chamberlain thought he liked him.