Massapequa is one of the thousand and one flourishing communities scattered over Long Island, all of which are apparently modelled after the same pattern.  Each is an exact duplicate of its neighbour in everything except the name—­the same untidy railroad station, the same sleepy stores, the same attractive little frame residences, built for the most part on the “Why pay Rent?  Own your own Home” plan.  A healthy boom in real estate imparts plenty of life to them all and Massapequa is particularly famed as being the place where the cat jumped to when Manhattan had to seek an outlet for its congested population and ever-increasing army of home seekers.  Formerly large tracts of flat farm lands, only sparsely shaded by trees, Massapequa, in common with other villages of its kind, was utterly destitute of any natural attractions.  There was the one principal street leading to the station, with a few scattered stores on either side, a church and a bank.  Happily, too, for those who were unable to survive the monotony of the place, it boasted of a pretty cemetery.  There were also a number of attractive cottages with spacious porches hung with honeysuckle and of these the Rossmores occupied one of the less pretentious kind.

But although Massapequa, theoretically speaking, was situated only a stone’s throw from the metropolis, it might have been situated in the Great Sahara so far as its inhabitants took any active interest in the doings of gay Gotham.  Local happenings naturally had first claim upon Massapequa’s attention—­the prowess of the local baseball team, Mrs. Robinson’s tea party and the highly exciting sessions of the local Pinochle Club furnishing food for unlimited gossip and scandal.  The newspapers reached the village, of course, but only the local news items aroused any real interest, while the women folk usually restricted their readings to those pages devoted to Daily Hints for the Home, Mrs. Sayre’s learned articles on Health and Beauty and Fay Stanton’s Daily Fashions.  It was not surprising, therefore, that the fame of Judge Rossmore and the scandal in which he was at present involved had not penetrated as far as Massapequa and that the natives were considerably mystified as to who the new arrivals in their midst might be.

Stott had been given a room in the cottage so that he might be near at hand to work with the judge in the preparation of the defence, and he came out from the city every evening.  It was now June.  The Senate would not take action until it convened in December, but there was a lot of work to be done and no time to be lost.

The evening following the day of their arrival they were sitting on the porch enjoying the cool evening air after dinner.  The judge was smoking.  He was not a slave to the weed, but he enjoyed a quiet pipe after meals, claiming that it quieted his nerves and enabled him to think more clearly.  Besides, it was necessary to keep at bay the ubiquitous Long Island mosquito.  Mrs. Rossmore had remained for a moment in the dining-room to admonish Eudoxia, their new and only maid-of-all-work, not to wreck too much of the crockery when she removed the dinner dishes.  Suddenly Stott, who was perusing an evening paper, asked: