He lost no time in setting about this newly discovered high task of love and justice.  Within twenty minutes he was closeted with Dawson of the great law firm, Mitchell, Dawson, Vance & Bischoffsheimer, who had had the best seats on all the fattest stranded carcasses of the Middle West for a decade—­that is, ever since Bischoffsheimer joined the firm and taught its intellects how on a vast scale to transubstantiate technically legal knowledge into technically legal wealth.  Dawson—­lean and keen, tough and brown of skin, and so carelessly dressed that he looked as if he slept in his clothes—­listened with the sympathetic, unwandering attention which men give only him who comes telling where and how they can make money.  The young man ended his story, all in a glow of enthusiasm for his exalted motives and of satisfaction with his eloquence in presenting them; then came the shrewd and thorough cross-examination which, he believed, strengthened every point he had made.

“On your showing,” was Dawson’s cautious verdict, “you seem to have a case.  But you must not forget that judges and juries have a deep prejudice against breaking wills.  They’re usually fathers themselves, and guard the will as the parent’s strongest weapon in keeping the children in order after they’re too old for the strap or the bed slat, as the case may be.  Undue influence or mental infirmity must be mighty clearly proven.  Even then the court may decide to let the will stand, on general principles.  Your mother and sister, of course, join you?”

“I—­I hope so,” hesitated Arthur.  “I’m not sure.”  More self-possessedly:  “You know how it is with women—­with ladies—­how they shrink from notoriety.”

“No, I can’t say I do,” said Dawson dryly.  “Ladies need money even more than women do, and so they’ll usually go the limit, and beyond, to get it.  However, assuming that for some reason or other, your mother and sister won’t help, at least they won’t oppose?”

“My sister is engaged to the son of Dr. Hargrave,” said Arthur uneasily.

“That’s good—­excellent!” exclaimed Dawson, rubbing his gaunt, beard-discolored jaw vigorously.

“But—­he—­Theodore Hargrave is a sentimental, unpractical chap.”

“So are we all—­but not in money matters.”

“He’s an exception, I’m afraid,” said Arthur.  “Really—­I think it’s almost certain he’ll try to influence her to take sides against me.  And my mother was very bitter when I spoke of contest.  But, as I’ve shown you, my case is quite apart from what they may or may not do.”

“Um—­um,” grunted Dawson.  He threw himself back in his chair; to aid him in thinking, he twisted the only remaining crown-lock of his gray-black hair, and slowly drew his thin lips from his big sallow teeth, and as slowly returned them to place.  “Obviously,” he said at length, “the doctor is the crucial witness.  We must see to it that”—­a significant grin—­“that the other side does not