“I understand,” answered Austen, gravely.

“I thought I’d let you know I didn’t take any too much trouble with Meader last summer to get the old bird to accept a compromise.”

“That was good of you, Ham.”

“I knew what you was up to,” said Mr. Tooting, giving Austen a friendly poke with his cigar.

“You showed your usual acumen, Mr. Tooting,” said Austen, as he rose to put on his coat.  Mr. Tooting regarded him uneasily.

“You’re a deep one, Aust,” he declared; “some day you and, me must get together.”

Mr. Billings’ desire for ultimate justice not being any stronger than Austen suspected, in due time Mr. Meader got his money.  His counsel would have none of it,—­a decision not at all practical, and on the whole disappointing.  There was, to be sure, an influx into Austen’s office of people who had been run over in the past, and it was Austen’s unhappy duty to point out to these that they had signed (at the request of various Mr. Tootings) little slips of paper which are technically known as releases.  But the first hint of a really material advantage to be derived from his case against the railroad came from a wholly unexpected source, in the shape of a letter in the mail one August morning.

   “Dear sir:  Having remarked with some interest the verdict for a
   client of yours against the United Northeastern Railroads, I wish
   you would call and see me at your earliest convenience.

   “Yours truly,

   “Humphrey Crewe.”

Although his curiosity was aroused, Austen was of two minds whether to answer this summons, the truth being that Mr. Crewe had not made, on the occasions on which they had had intercourse, the most favourable of impressions.  However, it is not for the struggling lawyer to scorn any honourable brief, especially from a gentleman of stocks and bonds and varied interests like Mr. Crewe, with whom contentions of magnitude are inevitably associated.  As he spun along behind Pepper on the Leith road that climbed Willow Brook on the afternoon he had made the appointment, Austen smiled to himself over his anticipations, and yet—–­being human-let his fancy play.

The broad acres of Wedderburn stretched across many highways, but the manor-house (as it had been called) stood on an eminence whence one could look for miles down the Yale of the Blue.  It had once been a farmhouse, but gradually the tail had begun to wag the dog, and the farmhouse became, like the original stone out of which the Irishman made the soup, difficult to find.  Once the edifice had been on the road, but the road had long ago been removed to a respectful distance, and Austen entered between two massive pillars built of granite blocks on a musical gravel drive.

Humphrey Crewe was on the porch, his hands in his pockets, as Austen drove up.

“Hello,” he said, in a voice probably meant to be hospitable, but which had a peremptory ring, “don’t stand on ceremony.  Hitch your beast and come along in.”