“He’s found out about this bill,” I replied.

“How?”

“I don’t know.  But someone told him that it originated in our office, and that we were going to use it in our suit against the Ribblevale.”

I related the circumstances of my running across Krebs, speaking of having known him at Harvard.  Colonel Varney uttered an oath, and strode across to the window, where he stood looking down into the street from between the lace curtains.

“We’ll have to attend to him, right off,” he said.

I was surprised to find myself resenting the imputation, and deeply.  “I’m afraid he’s one of those who can’t be ‘attended to,’” I answered.

“You mean that he’s in the employ of the Ribblevale people?” the Colonel inquired.

“I don’t mean anything of the kind,” I retorted, with more heat, perhaps, than I realized.  The Colonel looked at me queerly.

“That’s all right, Mr. Paret.  Of course I don’t want to question your judgment, sir.  And you say he’s a friend of yours.”

“I said I knew him at college.”

“But you will pardon me,” the Colonel went on, “when I tell you that I’ve had some experience with that breed, and I have yet to see one of ’em you couldn’t come to terms with in some way—­in some way,” he added, significantly.  I did not pause to reflect that the Colonel’s attitude, from his point of view (yes, and from mine,—­had I not adopted it?) was the logical one.  In that philosophy every man had his price, or his weakness.  Yet, such is the inconsistency of human nature, I was now unable to contemplate this attitude with calmness.

“Mr. Krebs is a lawyer.  Has he accepted a pass from the Railroad?” I demanded, knowing the custom of that corporation of conferring this delicate favour on the promising young talent in my profession.

“I reckon he’s never had the chance,” said Mr. Varney.

“Well, has he taken a pass as a member of the legislature?”

“No,—­I remember looking that up when he first came down.  Sent that back, if I recall the matter correctly.”  Colonel Varney went to a desk in the corner of the room, unlocked it, drew forth a black book, and running his fingers through the pages stopped at the letter K.  “Yes, sent back his legislative pass, but I’ve known ’em to do that when they were holding out for something more.  There must be somebody who can get close to him.”

The Colonel ruminated awhile.  Then he strode to the door and called out to the group of men who were always lounging in the hall.

“Tell Alf Young I want to see him, Fred.”

I waited, by no means free from uneasiness and anxiety, from a certain lack of self-respect that was unfamiliar.  Mr. Young, the Colonel explained, was a legal light in Galesburg, near Elkington,—­the Railroad lawyer there.  And when at last Mr. Young appeared he proved to be an oily gentleman of about forty, inclining to stoutness, with one of those “blue,” shaven faces.