The Honourable Hilary shook his head.

“Too much zeal,” he observed.  “I guess he won’t do it again.”

For a while after that they talked of strictly legal matters, which the chief counsel produced in order out of his bag.  But when these were finally disposed of, Mr. Flint led the conversation back to the Honourable Humphrey Crewe, who stood harmless—­to be sure—­like a bull on the track which it might be unwise to run over.

“He doesn’t amount to a soap bubble in a gale,” Mr. Flint declared contemptuously.  “Sometimes I think we made a great mistake to notice him.

“We haven’t noticed him,” said Mr. Vane; “the newspapers have.”

Mr. Flint brushed this distinction aside.

“That,” he said irritably, “and letting Tooting go—­”

The Honourable Hilary’s eyes began to grow red.  In former days Mr. Flint had not often questioned his judgment.

“There’s one thing more I wanted to mention to you,” said the chief counsel.  “In past years I have frequently drawn your attention to that section of the act of consolidation which declares that rates and fares existing at the time of its passage shall not be increased.”

“Well,” said Mr. Flint, impatiently, “well, what of it?”

“Only this,” replied the Honourable Hilary, “you disregarded my advice, and the rates on many things are higher than they were.”

“Upon my word, Vane,” said Mr. Flint, “I wish you’d chosen some other day to croak.  What do you want me to do?  Put all the rates back because this upstart politician Crewe is making a noise?  Who’s going to dig up that section?”

“Somebody has dug it up,” said Mr. Vane: 

This was the last straw.

“Speak out, man!” he cried.  “What are you leading up to?”

“Just this,” answered the Honourable Hilary; “that the Gaylord Lumber Company are going to bring suit under that section.”

Mr. Flint rose, thrust his hands in his pockets, and paced the room twice.

“Have they got a case?” he demanded.

“It looks a little that way tome,” said Mr. Vane.  “I’m not prepared to give a definite opinion as yet.”

Mr. Flint measured the room twice again.

“Did that old fool Hammer stumble on to this?”

“Hammer’s sick,” said Mr. Vane; “they say he’s got Bright’s disease.  My son discovered that section.”

There was a certain ring of pride in the Honourable Hilary’s voice, and a lifting of the head as he pronounced the words “my son,” which did not escape Mr. Flint.  The railroad president walked slowly to the arm of the chair in which his chief counsel was seated, and stood looking down at him.  But the Honourable Hilary appeared unconscious of what was impending.