“That’s part of my business, isn’t it?” Hilary asked, without turning his head.

Mr. Flint did not answer, but his eye rested again on his counsel’s face.

“I’m that kind of a lawyer,” Hilary continued, apparently more to himself than to his companion.  “You pay me for that sort of thing more than for the work I do in the courts.  Isn’t that so, Flint?”

Mr. Flint was baffled.  Two qualities which were very dear to him he designated as sane and safe, and he had hitherto regarded his counsel as the sanest and safest of men.  This remark made him wonder seriously whether the lawyer’s mind were not giving away; and if so, to whom was he to turn at this eleventh hour?  No man in the State knew the ins and outs of conventions as did Hilary Vane; and, in the rare times when there had been crises, he had sat quietly in the little room off the platform as at the keyboard of an organ, and the delegates had responded to his touch.  Hilary Vane had named the presidents of conventions, and the committees, and by pulling out stops could get such resolutions as he wished—­or as Mr. Flint wished.  But now?

Suddenly a suspicion invaded Mr. Flint’s train of thought; he repeated Hilary’s words over to himself.  “I’m that kind of a lawyer,” and another individuality arose before the president of the Northeastern.  Instincts are curious things.  On the day, some years before, when Austen Vane had brought his pass into this very room and laid it down on his desk, Mr. Flint had recognized a man with whom he would have to deal,—­a stronger man than Hilary.  Since then he had seen Austen’s hand in various disturbing matters, and now it was as if he heard Austen speaking.  “I’m that kind of a lawyer.”  Not Hilary Vane, but Hilary Vane’s son was responsible for Hilary Vane’s condition—­this recognition came to Mr. Flint in a flash.  Austen had somehow accomplished the incredible feat of making Hilary Vane ashamed—­and when such men as Hilary are ashamed, their usefulness is over.  Mr. Flint had seen the thing happen with a certain kind of financiers, one day aggressive, combative, and the next broken, querulous men.  Let a man cease to believe in what he is doing, and he loses force.

The president of the Northeastern used a locomotive as long as possible, but when it ceased to be able to haul a train up-grade, he sent it to the scrap-heap.  Mr. Flint was far from being a bad man, but he worshipped power, and his motto was the survival of the fittest.  He did not yet feel pity for Hilary—­for he was angry.  Only contempt,—­contempt that one who had been a power should come to this.  To draw a somewhat far-fetched parallel, a Captain Kidd or a Caesar Borgia with a conscience would never have been heard of.  Mr. Flint did not call it a conscience—­he had a harder name for it.  He had to send Hilary, thus vitiated, into the Convention to conduct the most important battle since the founding of the Empire, and Austen Vane was responsible.