There was one other way, at least, but the mere thought of it made him sick and shaken.  As an upright citizen and a member of the bar, was it not his duty to lay the evidence, not before the public in the newspapers, but before a competent court of justice?  And in that event, was there in this land of graft and corruption a judge sufficiently fearless and incorruptible to act with the needful vigor and promptness?

When Blount asked himself this question, the answer came quickly.  Though it was the common accusation, well or ill founded, that the lower courts of the State were the creatures of the corporations, the judges on the supreme bench still commanded the respect of the people.  Hemingway, the chief justice, was peculiarly a man for a crisis; strong, honest, and entirely fearless; a man who would not stop to haggle over nice questions of precedent and jurisdiction where the public welfare demanded prompt and effective action.

For a long half-hour Blount sat staring absently at the desk litter, trying to decide between the two courses open to him.  He knew that his father and Judge Hemingway had been lifelong friends, and this added another drop of bitterness to a cup which was already overflowing.  None the less, he was confident that the judge would do his duty as he saw it.  It was a merciless thing to do—­to make this just judge the slayer of the friend of his youth; but at the end Blount reached for the telephone-book and began to search for the chief justice’s residence number.  Before he could find it the phone bell rang.

“Well?” he answered shortly, putting the receiver to his ear.

It was Miss Anners who was at the other end of the wire, and he was instantly aware of the note of anxiety in her voice.

“Evan!” she exclaimed; “you don’t know what a fright you have given us!  What are you doing at your office when you ought to be here and in bed?”

Blount drew the desk instrument closer and tried to put her off lightly.

“I’m all right again.  I turned out early this morning to make up for lost time.  You wouldn’t expect me to stay in bed for more than a day to oblige a common, ordinary coach-dog, would you?”

“Yes, but see here—­listen:  Doctor Dillon has been here, and he is perfectly shocked.  He says there may be complications, and the very least you can do is to be careful.  Your father has had the hotel boys looking everywhere for you.  When are you coming back?”

Here was the direct question which Blount had been dreading.  Now, if never before, the wretched involvement had reached a point beyond which it was impossible to follow his father’s plea for a continuance of the kinsman amenities.

“I think you had better leave me out of any plans you are making for the day,” he answered evasively.  “I shall be pretty busy.”

“No—­listen,” she insisted.  “It’s wrong to work on Sunday, but if you will be obstinate, you must stop at luncheon-time.  We are going to drive out to Wartrace Hall this afternoon; Doctor Dillon says we positively must take you away from town and keep you quiet for a few days.”