“The silver service was a good muzzle,” he thought.  He went away for an interview with the corporation lawyer and the superintendent of the road, leaving Mrs. Ellis in a distraction of conscience that made her the wonder of her servants that morning, during all the preparations for the whist-party.  She might have felt more remorseful had she guessed her brother’s real plan.  He knew enough of Lossing to be assured that he would not yield about the ordinance, which he firmly believed to be a dangerous one for the city.  He expected, he counted on the mayor’s refusing his proffers.  He hoped that Esther would feel the sympathy which women give, without question generally, to the business plans of those near and dear to them, taking it for granted that the plans are right because they will advantage those so near and dear.  That was the beautiful and proper way that Jenny had always reasoned; why should Jenny’s daughter do otherwise?  When Harry Lossing should oppose her father and refuse to please him and to win her, mustn’t any high-spirited woman feel hurt?  Certainly she must; and he would take care to whisk her off to Europe before the young man had a chance to make his peace!  “Yes, sir,” says Armorer, to his only confidant, “you never were a domestic conspirator before, Horatio, but you have got it down fine!  You would do for Gaboriau”—­Gaboriau’s novels being the only fiction that ever Armorer read.  Nevertheless, his conscience pricked him almost as sharply as his sister’s pricked her.  Consciences are queer things; like certain crustaceans, they grow shells in spots; and, proof against moral artillery in one part, they may be soft as a baby’s cheek in another.  Armorer’s conscience had two sides, business and domestic; people abused him for a business buccaneer, at the same time his private life was pure, and he was a most tender husband and father.  He had never deceived Esther before in her life.  Once he had ridden all night in a freight-car to keep a promise that he had made the child.  It hurt him to be hoodwinking her now.  But he was too angry and too frightened to cry back.

The interview with the lawyer did not take any long time, but he spent two hours with the superintendent of the road, who pronounced him “a little nice fellow with no airs about him.  Asked a power of questions about Harry Lossing; guess there is something in that story about Lossing going to marry his daughter!”

Marston drove him to Lossing’s office and left him there.

He was on the ground, and Marston lifting the whip to touch the horse, when he asked:  “Say, before you go—­is there any danger in leaving off the conductors?”

Marston was raised on mules, and he could not overcome a vehement distrust of electricity.  “Well,” said he, “I guess you want the cold facts.  The children are almighty thick down on Third Street, and children are always trying to see how near they can come to being killed, you know, sir; and then, the old women like to come and stand on the track and ask questions of the motorneer on the other track, so that the car coming down has a chance to catch ’em.  The two together keep the conductors on the jump!”