Montague looked surprised.  “You mean you don’t know?”

“I mean,” was the answer, “that I wouldn’t feel at liberty to tell, even if I did know.”

And Montague stared at him; he had not been prepared for this frankness.

“It never occurred to me,” the other continued, “that that was a matter which could make any difference to you.”

“Why—­” began Montague.

“Pray understand me, Mr. Montague,” said the Judge.  “It seemed to me that this was obviously a just case, and it seemed so to you.  And the only other matter that I thought you had a right to be assured of was that it was seriously meant.  Of that I felt assured.  It did not seem to me of any importance that there might be interested individuals behind Mr. Hasbrook.  Let us suppose, for instance, that there were some parties who had been offended by the administration of the Fidelity, and were anxious to punish it.  Could a lawyer be justified in refusing to take a just case, simply because he knew of such private motives?  Or, let us assume an extreme case—­a factional fight within the company, as you say has been suggested to you.  Well, that would be a case of thieves falling out; and is there any reason why the public should not reap the advantage of such a situation?  The men inside the company are the ones who would know first what is going on; and if you saw a chance to use such an advantage in a just fight—­would you not do it?”

So the Judge went on, gracious and plausible—­and so subtly and exquisitely corrupting!  Underneath his smoothly flowing sentences Montague could feel the presence of one fundamental thought; it was unuttered and even unhinted, but it pervaded the Judge’s discourse as a mood pervades a melody.  The young lawyer had got a big fee, and he had a nice easy case; and as a man of the world, he could not really wish to pry into it too closely.  He had heard gossip, and felt that his reputation required him to be disturbed; but he had come, simply to be smoothed down the back and made at ease, and enabled to keep his fee without losing his good opinion of himself.

Montague quit, because he concluded that it was not worth while to try to make himself understood.  After all, he was in the case now, and there was nothing to be gained by a breach.  Two things he felt that he had made certain by the interview—­first, that his client was a “dummy,” and that it was really a case of thieves falling out; and second, that he had no guarantee that he might not be left in the lurch at any moment—­except the touching confidence of the Judge in some parties unknown.

CHAPTER XIX

Montague came home with his mind made up that there was nothing he could do except to be more careful next time.  For this mistake he would have to pay the price.

He had still to learn what the full price was.  The day after his return there came a caller—­Mr. John C. Burton, read his card.  He proved to be a canvassing agent for the company which published the scandal-sheet of Society.  They were preparing a de luxe account of the prominent families of New York; a very sumptuous affair, with a highly exclusive set of subscribers, at the rate of fifteen hundred dollars per set.  Would Mr. Montague by any chance care to have his family included?