of our political union, but how many differing points of view upon any single moral question would you find among as many citizens?  The moral code of decent people is practically the same all over the terrestrial ball, and fundamentally it has not changed since the days of Hammurabi.  The ideas of gentlemen and sportsmen as to what “is done” and “isn’t done” haven’t changed since Fabius Tullius caught snipe in the Pontine marshes.

Mr. Tutt was a crank on this general subject and he carried his enthusiasm so far that he was always tilting like Don Quixote at some imaginary windmill, dragging a very unwilling Sancho Panza after him in the form of his reluctant partner.  Moreover, he had a very keen sympathy for all kinds of outcasts, deeming most of them victims of the sins of their own or somebody’s else fathers.  So when he learned from Miss Wiggin that Tutt had presumed to interfere with the financial prospects of the unknown Miss Sadie Burch he was distinctly aggrieved, less on her account to be sure than upon that of his client’s whom he regarded more or less in his keeping.  And, as luck would have it, the object of his grievance, having forgotten something, at that moment unexpectedly reentered the office to retrieve it.

“Hello, Mr. Tutt!” he exclaimed.  “Not gone yet!”

His senior partner glanced at him sharply, while Miss Wiggin hastily sidestepped into the corridor.

“Look here, Tutt!” said Mr. Tutt.  “I don’t know just what you’ve been telling young Clifford, or how you’ve been interfering in his private affairs, but if you’ve been persuading him to disregard any wish of his father plainly expressed in his own handwriting and incorporated with his will you’ve gone further than you’ve any right to go.”

“But,” expostulated Tutt, “you know how dangerous it is to meddle with things like that.  Our experience certainly shows that it’s far wiser to let the law settle all doubtful questions than to try to guess what the final testamentary intention of a dead testator really was.  Don’t you remember the Dodworth case?  A hypersensitive conscience cost our widowed client ten thousand dollars!  I say, leave well enough alone.”

“‘Well enough’!  ’Well enough’!” snarled Mr. Tutt.  “Are you going to constitute yourself the judge of what is well enough for a young man’s soul?  I give you fair warning, Tutt:  he’s heard your side of it, but before he gets through he’s going to hear mine as well!”

Samuel Tutt turned a faint pink in the region of his collar.

“Why, certainly, Mr. Tutt!” he stammered.  “Do so, by all means!”

“You jolly well bet I will!” replied Mr. Tutt, jamming on his stovepipe.

Several days passed, however, without the subject being mentioned further, while the proper steps to probate the will were taken as usual.  Payson Clifford’s dilemma had no legal reaction.  He had made up his mind and he was going to stick to it.  He had taken the opinion of counsel and was fully satisfied with what he had done.  Nobody was going to know anything about it, anyway.  When the proper time came he would burn the Sadie Burch letter and forget Sadie Burch.  That is, he thought he was going to and that he could.  But—­as Plautus says:  “Nihil est miserius quam animus hominis conscius.”