“Mr. Martin respectfully acknowledges Judge Blagden’s letter of the 10th inst., and is gratified to learn that the warning was not wholly uncalled for. The Justice, however, may rest assured that he is under no obligation to Mr. Martin, whose sole concern in the matter was his honour—but not His Honour Charles Blagden.”
“Mr. Martin respectfully acknowledges Judge Blagden’s letter of the 10th inst., and is gratified to learn that the warning was not wholly uncalled for. The Justice, however, may rest assured that he is under no obligation to Mr. Martin, whose sole concern in the matter was his honour—but not His Honour Charles Blagden.”
Williams ought to have known that whenever Meyer wanted a title searched he shopped with it until competition eliminated the margin of profit. But whether he knew this or not it was perfectly plain that there was no money in the East Broadway work at the figures he agreed upon. However, year after year the legal arena is gladdened by the advent of certain rosy-cheeked, enthusiastic youths who fancy they can change the instinct of Chatham Square and acquire control of big real estate operators like Meyer, through the simple expedient of doing some of their work for nothing. Moreover, each newcomer thinks he has evolved an entirely novel plan for working up a practice. At first I thought Williams was one of these delightfully optimistic individuals, but subsequent events have demonstrated there was more method in his madness.
Williams was in love with Miss Thornton. Everybody knew it, though, as Parsons said, Miss Thornton didn’t seem to know it byheart. The more fool she, I thought, for Williams was a first-rate fellow and a far better man than that doll-faced, shallow chit had any right to expect. I admit it isn’t very gallant to speak of a girl in this way, but I sometimes think a little plain truth about the fair sex would make them more fair. Miss Thornton had prettiness enough of a certain kind, she wore her gowns well and looked the girl of good breeding that she was. But beyond that—well, I never could see what made Williams so desperately in love with her. Therefore when R. Castelez Forbes appeared on the scene, though I sympathised with the discomforted swain, I could not really feel very sorry for him.
Where R. Castelez Forbes came from was more or less of a mystery. Mrs. Thornton told me she met him on the “Teutonic” and that he had been “awfully kind” to Daisy and her during the passage. She had invited him to spend a day or two in the Berkshires, and since then they had seen a good deal of him. To my inquiry as to his business Mrs. Thornton replied that he was “something in the manufacturing line” and she believed “quite a rising young fellow.” She was a hopelesslysilly woman. Mr. Thornton was an able man, but too easy going and good-natured to trouble himself about the antecedents of Miss Daisy’s callers.
It did not take much to frighten Williams off. He was sensitive as most manly fellows are when in love. But had he possessed far more self-confidence there was quite enough in the situation to have discouraged him. Miss Thornton and Forbes were constantly together, and although no engagement had been announced most people spoke of it as “an understood thing.”
Such was the situation when Meyer brought the East Broadway papers to Williams and inquired his fee for searching the title.
Williams glanced at the contract of sale for a moment, turned to the last deed in the Abstract and promptly named a figure so low that even Meyer feared to ask for a reduction, although he did insist on the work being finished in a week. The bargain was closed then and there, and everybody who heard of it cursed Williams for cutting prices to a point where neither he nor anyone else could hope to make money.
But the last item in the East Broadway Abstractwould have explained to the initiated why Williams undertook the work at losing rates, and it certainly excused him for beginning his investigation of the title wrong end foremost. This item read as follows:
Reginald C. Forbes,ToBeatrice Gordon Forbes}Warranty Deed, F. & C.Dated May 1, 1887.Rec. May 2, 1887.Ack. May 1, 1887.Cons. $1.
Conveys premises under examination.
which meant that, at the date named, one Reginald C. Forbes had transferred the East Broadway property to a woman named Forbes at a nominal price. The contract of sale showed that this same Miss or Mrs. Forbes had agreed to sell the property to Meyer.
Within ten minutes after he had received the papers, Williams was hot upon the trail. Within an hour he had learned all he wished to know.
The Register’s Office showed that the deed made by Reginald C. Forbes was recorded at the request of Messrs. Harmon & Headly, and at their offices Williams made his first inquiry.
“Yes, I know Mr. Forbes,” replied Mr.Harmon—“at least, I did know him. He was a client of mine some years ago. Why do you ask?”
Williams exhibited the Abstract and pointed out the deed in question.
“I recall the transaction,” continued the old lawyer, after a moment’s thought. “Forbes conveyed the property to his wife for one dollar, in consideration of her releasing him from alimony and dower rights.—Yes, she obtained a divorce from him some time in ’86 or ’87. I think you’ll find her agreement on record, but perhaps Forbes didn’t record it. I haven’t seen him for years, and don’t know what’s become of him.—Do I remember what name the initial C stood for? Yes, I believe I do. It had a Spanish sound. Something like Castilian. Castelez? Yes—that was it.”
Williams thanked Mr. Harmon and went home to work his way through a maze of tangled thoughts to the conclusion that his duty to his neighbour, Miss Thornton, was to love her far better than himself.
His reasoning was something like this: Miss Thornton had been cruelly deceived. She had honoured a scamp by receiving his attention. Perhaps she had even given him herlove. But in any case, humiliation was to be her portion. The blow to her self-esteem she could not escape—but might he not save her pride the lasting sting of even a partial publicity? How could this best be done? To speak to a man of Forbes’ character would be a waste of words and give no protection to the girl. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were in Bermuda, and every moment’s delay must add insult to the injury. The girl’s chaperone was a foolish hysterical old aunt whose idea of action in emergency would probably begin and end in a telegram. What if he undertook the task himself? He was a rival and she might not believe him? There was no chance for disbelief. If she required proofs—they were at hand. His knowledge of her humiliation would make her hate the sight of his face, and she would never forget or forgive it? He would still have saved her something of bitterness, and for this there was no sacrifice he would not make.
Now I do not propose to argue that Williams took the wisest course even if Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were in Bermuda—I am not prepared to say he was not quixotic—I am ready to admit he was disqualified from acting eitheras tale-bearer or guardian, but I do maintain that in taking upon himself the responsibility of putting the girl in possession of the facts, he showed far more moral courage than nine out of ten men would display under similar circumstances.
Had Miss Thornton’s mind been built upon broader lines, she would have appreciated the admirable tact with which Williams handled the whole subject and understood the delicacy and deference which disclosed the truth so gradually that she seemed to discover it for herself. But Miss Thornton’s mind was somewhat self-centred, and as she heard his story her pretty face showed nothing but its prettiness. She listened to the words of the man, but took no note of his quiet, sympathetic tone. Suddenly the situation dawned upon her. Her cheeks flushed, her hands, which had been clasped behind her shapely head, fell, and she sat there in the half light of the cozy drawing-room gazing before her without seeing the pained and tenderly anxious glance of the man who stood looking down at her.
“Good night, Miss Thornton.—Won’t you even say good-bye?”
There was no answer from the girl who,with elbows on knees and her chin in her hands, stared into the fading fire as though unconscious of his presence.
“Good-bye, then, Miss Thornton, and—and God keep you—dear!”
Now it may be true, as her garrulous old aunt told me, that Miss Thornton was discovered in the drawing-room that night weeping bitterly, but if so, I venture to assert her tears were those of anger—the tears of a spoilt child. However, the point is not what I think, but what Williams thought. He left the Thorntons’ house firmly convinced that he had wholly failed in his mission and succeeded only in making the woman he loved hate him. But as he lay awake brooding over the situation the possibility presented itself that the girl might go to Forbes with the story and assert her loyalty by offering to marry him then and there. Such things had happened before. As he thought it over, the possibility became a fear, and the fear a resolution to protect the girl, not only against Forbes, but if necessary against herself. The step he took was theoretically quite as impossible as his original action. But to attempt the impossible is sometimes to achieve it.
Early the next morning Williams looked up Pierce & Butler, the attorneys who had represented Mrs. Forbes in the divorce proceedings, obtained her address, and straightway called upon the lady herself. His interview was short, but at its close he made another extraordinary move. He telegraphed Meyer that the East Broadway business was to be closed within twenty-four hours. Seeing that he had not up to that time made any adequate examination of the title, his action must have seemed somewhat rash to his clerks—especially as he spent most of the intervening hours, not at the Register’s office, but in the building of the green lamps on Mulberry Street known as Police Headquarters.
As a result of this, the first callers at Williams’ offices on the following morning were afforded singular accommodations. One of them was stationed behind the portières, another was supplied with a seat in a closet, and another was ensconced in a coat-cupboard.
Then Williams sat down at the big table in the Title-closing room and waited for Meyer and the other parties to the purchase and sale of the property. They came promptly.
Meyer arrived first, accompanied by Jacobs,his confidential clerk, for that prudent Hebrew never did anything without one of his own people being present as a witness; then Mr. Winter, the real estate broker, dropped in, and when finally Mr. August Stein, Attorney-at-law, introduced himself and his client Mrs. Forbes. Williams showed no surprise that Mr. Stein’s client did not in any way resemble the Mrs. Forbes he had interviewed only the day before.
Mr. Stein was a nervous, active little man who spoke in the sharp brisk tones of one who has much to do and but little time to do it in.
“Now, Mr. Williams, you are all ready, I hope. I have another appointment at 11.30. You found everything clear? Of course—of course. It isn’t everyone who can carry East Broadway property free and clear.—No, indeed, Mrs. Forbes.”
The attorney smiled approvingly at his client.
Williams studied the papers in his hand and answered without looking up.
“Everything is completed except the formality of identification. Of course it’s all right, but you know I have not had the pleasure ofmeeting Mrs. Forbes and I don’t think my client has——”
Meyer shook his head.
“Well, don’t let’s waste time on that,” Mr. Stein interrupted, “you know Mr. Winter here, and he will identify Mrs. Forbes to your satisfaction.”
Williams glanced inquiringly at the broker whom he had known for a couple of years.
“Do you identify this lady as the owner of this East Broadway property, Mr. Winter?” he asked.
“Surely—surely,” was the answer.
“How long have you known her, Mr. Winter?”
“Well, about—I should say—it must be—two years.”
“Who introduced you—or how did you meet?”
“Now, Mr. Williams,” interrupted Mr. Stein, “this is very interesting, but it’s wasting my time. All this should have been attended to before I was summoned. I am a very busy man and you’ll have to postpone the whole matter until to-morrow. I really can’t wait.”
Mr. Stein began buttoning up his coat and reached for his hat.
Williams fumbled among his papers for a moment and drew forth an affidavit.
“Perhaps we can save time with your aid. This is rather a large transaction for me, so I have to go slowly. You will have no objection to signing this affidavit of identification—will you, Mr. Stein?”
The attorney adjusted his glasses.
“It’s not necessary, Sir,” he remarked, merely glancing at the paper and handing it back.—“It’s not at all necessary. There is already sufficient evidence to satisfy any reasonable man and we are not obliged to satisfy you. It was your duty to have convinced yourself before the time of closing.”
“I didn’t suppose you would have any objection to giving the proof required.”
“I don’t know that there is any objection, but I’ve been closing real estate titles all my life and I know my rights and don’t intend to be imposed upon.”
“I’m not trying to impose upon you, my dear Sir.”
“That’s just what you are trying to do and I don’t propose”—the lawyer rose and began to gather up his papers.
“What is the matter, Mr. Stein? Why are you getting excited?”
“I’m not excited, Sir, but I propose to be treated with decent respect and not like a shyster, and since you insist——”
“But I don’t insist——” interrupted Williams. “Sit down, Mr. Stein.”
——“Since you insist,” persisted the lawyer, walking toward Mr. Meyer, “I make a tender to your client of this deed——” he drew a document from his pocket and handed it to Meyer’s clerk.
“Sit down, Mr. Stein,” repeated Williams sharply,—“unless you want me to think you are seeking an excuse to break this contract.—Sit down at once, Sir!—Mr. Jacobs—let me look at that deed.”
The clerk handed the paper to him and Williams glanced at the signature.
“This is already signed and acknowledged before you as witness and Notary, Mr. Stein. It is perfectly satisfactory. Let us proceed.”
The attorney slowly sat down again and then laughed uneasily.
“I had completely forgotten that, Mr. Williams. Your insistence nettled me for the moment and quite put it out of my head.A tempest in a tea-pot—much ado about nothing, of course!—But rights are rights, you know.—It’s instinct with us lawyers to insist upon them, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Meyer, kindly hand your check to this lady who will deliver her deed,” directed Williams, as he passed the paper to the woman.
Meyer beckoned the young lawyer to the window.
“Is everything all right?” he whispered, as he fumbled in his pocket for the check, “are you sure?”
“Do as I tell you!” was the whispered answer, so sharp and savage that the old man started and his cunning eyes flashed angrily. For a moment he hesitated, gazing earnestly into the calm face of his counsel and then turned suddenly and handed the check to the woman.
“Is that check certified? Let me see it!” cried Stein starting to his feet. The woman handed it to him, at the same time delivering the deed into Meyer’s outstretched hand.
“Now what did you do that for?” Stein snapped angrily at his client—“can’t you wait——”
He stopped suddenly, for something clicked behind him and he turned just in time to see Winter handcuffed and struggling in the arms of a detective.
With a cry the fellow leaped across the long, narrow table, but as he landed on the other side he found himself facing the muzzle of a revolver pointing at him from the window curtains. Without a word he threw up his hands, and as he did so passed the check into his mouth. The movement did not escape Williams, and like a flash his revolver was between the fellow’s eyes.
“Spit it out,” he said quietly. “Don’t chew it! This revolver is self-cocking! One—two——”
The check came again into evidence.
“Hands down for the bangles—my son,” ordered the detective as he stepped toward Stein. As the handcuffs snapped, Williams lowered his weapon and picked up the check. Then as the men moved their prisoners toward the door he turned to the woman.
“Mrs.—Forbes,” he began in a low tone, “won’t you be good enough to tell me your right name?”
The reply was a paroxysm of tears and sobs.Williams waited for the outburst to subside and then quietly repeated his question. The answer came brokenly between sobs.
“It’d be—it’d be Mrs. Forbes—if—if—I had my rights!”
Williams stared at the speaker in utter amazement. Was there something more in this case? Who was this woman, anyway, and why did she claim any right to Forbes’ name?
“And until you get your rights,” he said, “what shall I call you?”
“Mary Halpin—Miss,” answered the woman, sullenly.
Williams signalled the waiting detective to stop where he was.
“Well, Mary,” he continued, “will you kindly go into my room for a moment?”
The woman rose and passed into the room indicated.
“Miss Halpin,” began Williams when the door closed, “I suppose you are well aware what your position is, and that it can’t be made much worse. I cannot, of course, promise you any leniency, but if you want to answer a few questions you can regard yourself as speaking confidentially to your Counsel,and I may possibly be able to give you some advice.”
The woman looked at him in silence for a moment and then nodded.
“Are you the Mary Halpin mentioned in the divorce case ofForbesvs.Forbes?”
“Yes.”
Williams studied the face before him, and as he did so, possibilities began to crowd thick and fast upon his mind. He determined to risk something in his next question.
“Mr. Forbes suggested that you impersonate Mrs. Forbes,” he asserted boldly.
“How do you know that?” snapped Miss Halpin.
“No matter—I do know it. What reason did he give for wanting you to impersonate his wife?”
The woman buried her face in her hands and Williams let her cry it out.
Here was a nice ending to all his plans for Miss Thornton! If Forbes’ connection with this case was known what a splendid newspaper story his courtship of the young society girl would make! All the horrors of publicity would be crowded upon her with crushing force. She might bear humiliationin the sight of her friends, but not before the gaze of the world. If anything was to be done to strangle that journalistic tid-bit it must be done then and there.
“Why did he want you to impersonate his wife?” repeated Williams.
The woman looked at him through her tears.
“He said he had to have the money and—if I did it—he’d have plenty. He said—he said there was no harm—that I was—I was—that I had a right to say I was Mrs. Forbes, and he’d marry me afterwards. But he’ll never do it now!” she sobbed, “he’ll never do it now!”
“I think he will.”
Miss Halpin stopped weeping and stared eagerly at Williams.
“O if I thought that!” she began. “I’d do anything—anything!”
“Listen then. Does Winter or Stein know of Forbes in this matter?”
“No, no.”
“Don’t they know he’s back of you?”
“No.”
“All your own game?—You bought them yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want revenge on Forbes?”
“No, no. God forgive me, I love him!”
“Then prove it. You will be taken to the Tombs now. Don’t get frightened. Say nothing to anyone. Before night Forbes will get bail for you and you will go at once with him to Dr. Strong’s in Jersey City. Forbes has promised to marry you before?”
“Yes.”
“So I suppose you wouldn’t mind having some sort of hold on him?”
The woman smiled.
“All right, I’ll give you some advice. If he hesitates at the altar this time tell him you’ve been asked to turn State’s evidence and remind him that it is difficult for wives to testify against their husbands. That’s all. Good-bye.”
Williams opened the door and stepped into the outer office.
“You will find your prisoner in my room, Sergeant,” he said to the waiting detective.
“Dan,” he called to the office boy, as the door closed upon the officer and his charge.“Ring up Mr. R. Castelez Forbes, and say I want to see him here at once.”
Ten minutes later Williams was retained by R. Castelez Forbes, and gave that gentleman some sound advice. The same day toward evening, Mrs. R. C. Forbes,néeHalpin, and her husband,aliasR. Castelez Forbes, started very privately for the West, and the City of New York was the richer in forfeited bail.
It is often difficult to differentiate between the accessory to a crime and the counsel defending the criminal. Williams, of course, might plead confidential communications, which certainly cover a multitude of sins. But I prefer to pardon him on the theory that all is fair in love and—well, law is a sort of civil war. Sometimes not even civil.
If this wasn’t a true story, I might report that Williams married a fine woman in every way worthy of him, and that Meyer as a reward for that day’s good work gave him all his business ever afterwards. But the facts are Williams never married, and Meyer refused to pay his fee. Whereupon Williamspromptly sued him for the money, won the suit and collected every cent due him. That is the real reason why the old scamp respects him nowadays and gives him so much of his business.
There are office buildings still standing in down-town New York where the occupant does not merge his identity with the numerals on his door. But they are very old buildings and the tenants are apt to be as old-fashioned as their surroundings. It was in one of these venerable piles that Clayton Sargent passed his legal apprenticeship, and perhaps this explains some things in his career which are otherwise inexplicable.
When Sargent was first ushered into the offices of Messrs. Harding, Peyton, Merrill and Van Standt he found a suite of plainly furnished rooms connected by green baize doors and surrounded by law books from floor to ceiling. The desks were large and dignified—almost learned in their solidity, as though they had soaked in all the wisdom that had dripped from the pens and all the experience of the pen holders.—The large iron safe builtinto the wall of the rear room looked a very monster of mystery from whose cavernous jaws no secrets would ever escape, and in whose keeping confidences were secure as with the Sphinx.
No sound of the typewriter was ever heard in those rooms, though the crackle and snapping of the soft cannel coal in the open fireplaces would occasionally lure someone into betting that “the Ancients had surrendered.” No telephone ever tinkled its call inside those doors and no member of the firm ever learned to use that instrument.
Harding, Peyton, Merrill and Van Standt’s law papers were a joke in the profession. They were engrossed on parchment-like paper and tied with blue or red silk string, and if a seal was used two bits of ribbon always protruded from its edge. But those who read these documents, though they laughed at the outside, respected the inside, for “the Ancients” had a large practice and knew how to keep it.
“They’re harmless old birds,” said Elmendorff, whose place Sargent was taking, “but utterly impractical. I’ve been three years in a live office and I tell you I couldn’t stand this. You’ll waste your time here. Why, not aweek ago I heard old man Peyton tell a client that he’d better put everything on the altar of compromise and then offer to divide, rather than get into litigation. They’re dying of dry rot. You can’t get up a scrap here to save your eternal. Just think of this for instance. Last month I began an action for the Staunton Manufacturing Company against Mundel and it was dead open and shut, too. Well, in walks Harding one morning madder than hops. ‘How did this get in the office?’ says he, waiving the complaint. I told him I advised the plaintiffs that they had a good case. ‘Good case!’ he roars. ‘There’s not the slightest justice in the claim—not a scintilla of justice, Sir!’ ‘But we can win,’ I told him, and I showed the old fool where the defendant had slipped up in the wording of his contract and how we had him cold. Well, darn me, if he didn’t get hotter under the collar than before, asking me if I thought his firm were hired tricksters and bravos and I don’t know what. Finally he bundled all the papers back to the Staunton Company and wrote them they oughtn’t to sue. That settled me, and so I told them I’d have to get out into the world again before the moss grew. It’s apity, too, for they’ve really got a smooth lot of clients if they only knew how to work them.”
So Elmendorff departed, but no one ever heard that he took any of the Ancients’ practice with him.
It was this atmosphere which Sargent breathed for three years, and perhaps, as has been said, that may account for some of his many eccentricities and explain, in a measure, his treatment of Fenton.
Fenton had married the daughter of Brayton Garland, one of Mr. Harding’s clients, and when his wife sued him for divorce he brought the papers to Sargent.
It was in offices very different from the Ancients’ that Fenton found his counsel. They were on the 17th floor of the Titan Building, on lower Broadway, where the draught in the hall steadily sucked a stream of people into elevators, which, with the regularity of trip-hammers, shot them up breathless and dropped them gasping.
There were three law firms in the same suite with Sargent,—four attorneys “on their own hook,” a Seamless Mattress Company, an Electric Drying Company and a CollectionAgency. Typewriters clicked in every room, messengers clattered up and down the long hallway, brass gates on the railed-off spaces swung to and fro crashing with every swing, the telephones sung a constant chorus, electric bells buzzed and tinkled, doors banged, papers rustled, voices droned or struck the air in sharp staccato, and yet in the midst of all this restless human energy there were times when Sargent felt lonely. It was not merely that he missed the atmosphere of quiet and study, but the very rush and scramble seemed to generate ideas and actions foreign to the code of professional ethics and dignity which governed the Ancients.
Sometimes the denizens of the Titan Building discussed the matter with him.
“Theoretically your venerable friends are all right,” a brilliant, pushing young lawyer told him one day. “The man who lives by maxims in this day and generation will have food for thought, but he’ll never earn his salt. We start with the same point of view, but——”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“But someone throws gold-dust in our eyes?” suggested Sargent.
“Bosh!” was the retort. “Don’t talk thecant of the incompetent. The Bar is of a higher average to-day than it ever was before.”
But despite the “high average,” Sargent often felt himself a solitary outsider looking on at the mad clamour and pitiless pursuit and wondering if it was worth all it seemed to cost. A defect in early education—this pausing to think—for philosophers on lower Broadway are apt to have but brief careers.
“There’s nothing in the case,” Fenton told his counsel, who sat gazing out of the window at the tiny human ants crawling in and out of the stone heaps in the street below.
Sargent looked narrowly at his client, but the side face told him nothing, so he made no comment and Fenton continued,
“I don’t know why she wants to drag us into court. I suppose some long-whiskered tabby has been telling her I ought to stay home every night. Say, Sargent, isn’t there some way of bringing her to her senses?”
The speaker turned from the window with a gesture of impatience, and Sargent studied the handsome though somewhat boyish face. He knew Fenton for an easy-going fellow, but no fool. He was a young man who had earned his money by his own brains, acquiring allthe self-confidence and other characteristics, good and bad, which accompany achievement. There was strength of character in his face, and a certain firmness of purpose about the mouth that suggested something which the clear blue eyes contradicted.
“You say there is nothing in the case,” Sargent answered. “Why do you suppose she brings suit? I don’t know Mrs. Fenton, of course, but women are not anxious as a rule to get themselves into court. Have you tried to see her and obtain an explanation?”
“Lord, no! If you knew her you’d see how useless it would be. There’s no way out of this except by showing her we mean business. She’s nearly killed all the affection I ever had for her by this nonsense, but I want it stopped—and stopped right now.”
The suggestive lines of Fenton’s mouth were strongly marked as he snapped out the last words.
“If you no longer love your wife,—am I to understand that you want a divorce? Have you anything to set up by way of counterclaim?”
“By way of counterclaim? No.—Yes, I have. I want the children.”
Sargent smiled. “That’s hardly a counterclaim,” he answered.
“Well, it’s counterclaim enough for me.—That’s just the thing. You push that and we’ll see about the rest afterwards. If she wants to go into court she’ll have to go without the children.”
Fenton’s mouth was firmly set, and its lines were almost grim. The boyish look had faded, and without it his features developed coarseness.
Sargent hesitated.
“Mr. Fenton,” he said at last, “I don’t like these cases, and when a man dislikes his work, you know, he’s not apt to do it well. I think you would do better to retain other counsel.”
“Now that’s all nonsense, Sargent. You are just the man for me. I don’t want one of those advertising roarers who’ll have us in every paper. I want this thing stopped. You’ll only have to apply for the children and that’ll end it. There are plenty of legal ruffians to be had. I have chosen you because you are a gentleman and know how this business should be handled.”
There was no note of flattery in Fenton’s tone.
“But, Mr. Fenton, admitting there is nothing in the case, the custody of the children is still a matter resting wholly in the discretion of the Court and you may not succeed. Mr. Harding is an excellent lawyer and will doubtless make a good fight. You remember, of course, that I was in his office some years ago?”
Fenton looked sharply at his counsel and his eyes narrowed slightly as he answered.
“Well, that doesn’t make any difference, does it? It ought to be all the better. You must know all the old chap’s tricks.”
There was a suggestion of cunning about the man which completely transformed him for a moment. His watchful eyes, however, read the doubt in Sargent’s face and bespoke a charming sincerity as he added:
“Why, of course, I knew you were brought up with ‘the Ancients,’ Sargent. I was only joking. But that is merely another reason why you are best fitted to undertake this case. If it were the ordinary divorce dirt I wouldn’t ask you to plough it up. But it’s not. Mr. Harding knows you and you will be able to approach him easily. Mrs. Fenton has been poorly advised, I think, but themischief’s not yet wholly done. Make your ‘motion’ or whatever you call it, and then you’ll find the rest is easy. I know you can handle the matter as few men could. I’ve wanted to give you some business for a long time and I’m sorry to begin with this. However, it will not be the last, you know.”
Sargent had built up a fair practice since he left “the Ancients,” but this was the first time he had ever been opposed to them. He confessed to himself that he did not like it.
Fenton was not wholly convincing, but if he did not take up this case someone else would. If he was better than his profession it was high time to retire from it. Then, too, Mr. Harding was growing old, and doubtless the woman deceived by silly stories had deceived him. Very probably, as Fenton said, the first aggressive move would settle the whole affair. What fools women were to listen to every Old Wife who came along with idle tittle-tattle seeking recruits for the great Army of the Misunderstood! Fenton’s business was worth having, and if this matter went well there was no knowing where it might lead. Moreover all the essential facts were in the defendant’sfavour, and as Sargent skilfully set them forth in his “moving papers” he experienced that subtle influence, known to every lawyer, which can turn the most judicial counsel into a partisan, and make the silliest quarrel a matter of deadly moment between strangers to its cause.
Any Court with jurisdiction in divorce proceedings draws an audience peculiar to itself.
Every Court Room has, of course, its individual devotees. For instance “Dutch Pete” is accustomed to the corner bench in Part XV. and would not change it for any other sleeping quarters, and even the migratory loafers seem to know and respect old “Lawyer” Brady’s seat in Trial Term Part XX.
But, with divorce matters on the calendar, Special Term Part I. appeals to a particular class. One can recognise its women out in the Rotunda long before they turn toward the haven, and one can almost feel its moist and clammy type of man.
To see the women with their hard faces well nigh intelligent with curiosity—their longnecks and ears turned to catch each salacious morsel—is a sight to sicken every man with memory of a mother. To watch the flabby-jowled, pimply persons of the masculine gender, their drooling mouths fashioned to a grin, and their perspiring hands clutching the soiled and soiling newspapers, is to understand the cynic who protested that “the more he saw of men the better he liked dogs.”
“Mr. Harding,” said the Justice, as the arguments inFentonvs.Fentonclosed, “it seems to me the defendant has made out a reasonable case. As you have said, this matter rests wholly in the discretion of the Court, and although we hold the parents joint and equal guardians of their children and do not follow the old world rule that a father has a superior claim to the possession of his offspring, yet, as it seems to me, this is a case where that rule should apply. Mrs. Fenton has left her husband’s house without just cause, as he alleges. She makes no claim for his support, and the complaint, as has been shown, is deficient in its detail. If I am wrong, a trial will set the matter right. In the meantime I award the possession of the children to the father. If you can agree with Mr. Sargent upon theterms of the order, I will make such provision for occasional visits of the mother as justice may——”
A scraping of chairs and rustling of skirts drowned the closing words of the Judge and Sargent turned to see a woman entering the Court Room with two little children at her side. She walked directly toward the counsel’s table, and the restless eye-lashes of the unsexed “painted” her in rapid sweeping glances, now up—now down—and the fat-paunched leerers followed her with looks scarcely less offensive.
“My child, you should not have come here,” whispered Mr. Harding, as he rose and offered her his chair.
She was scarcely more than a girl, but her tall graceful figure bespoke a quiet dignity, and the grey eyes with their steady gaze told of developed character.
Sargent glanced at his client. Fenton must have seen the doubt expressed in the lawyer’s face, for he spoke up sharply.
“Let’s finish this business, Sargent. I suppose I can take the children now.”
But his counsel did not answer, and Fenton, growing impatient, addressed the Court.
“Your Honour, these are my children—I suppose I may take them now?”
The Judge, busy with the signing of papers, frowned but took no other notice of the questioner.
Mrs. Fenton laid her hand on Mr. Harding’s arm and almost shook it as she asked,
“What does he mean? What—does—he—mean?”
How the necks stretched and the ears strained to catch the counsel’s answer!
But he whispered to the woman at his side, who, with her arms thrown about the children, seemed oblivious of the eyes glutting themselves upon her.
“Impossible!” she kept repeating, “it is impossible!”
The old lawyer shook his head gravely and glanced uneasily at the defendant. Again he whispered to the young wife, speaking rapidly and stopping her interruptions with the pressure of his hand upon her arm, till at length she burst out in a frightened undertone,
“But I tell you it is impossible! Itshallnot be done!”
Sargent rose and crossed to where the two were talking.
“Pardon me for interrupting,” he said to Mr. Harding, “but I apprehend this decision is a surprise to Mrs. Fenton. Can we not arrange that the matter shall go no further?”
“Gladly, Sargent, but how?”
“I am authorised by my client to withdraw this motion if Mrs. Fenton will discontinue her case.”
Mr. Harding looked at the fair face turned toward him.
“You understand,” he said. “This is Mr. Sargent,—your husband’s attorney.”
With a gesture, half terror and half disdain, the young mother drew the children closer to her side and Sargent felt the hot blood flying to his cheeks. But she seemed only conscious of Mr. Harding’s presence as she answered him.
“Does he dare offer to bribe me with my own children? It is monstrous!”
Mr. Harding glanced sadly at the younger lawyer as the latter turned again to his impatient client.
“She won’t consent?” muttered Fenton. “Nonsense! You’ve worked the smooth business right enough, Sargent, but we’ve won the motion and done the decent. Now knockthings about. You’ve got to scare her half out of her wits——”
Sargent’s face flushed.
“I think you are mistaking her,” he said. “I know you are mistaking me.”
“Good Lord—man, don’t get mussy just when everything’s in our own hands. We’ve got to push it through now or never. Why—damn it,” he whispered fiercely, “don’t you understand we can’t defend this case? We’ve got to bluff her out!”
The word “we” stung Sargent as though someone had slapped his face. Yet he was associated with this man. Associated for what purpose—to do what? His client’s angry outburst had made it plain enough.
Fenton saw the glance of scorn in his lawyer’s eyes.
“I’ll be my own attorney then—and a damn sight better one,” he muttered and turned toward the group at the other end of the table.
“Well, now, let’s have the children—Come, kids.”
He rose and took a step forward. As he did so his wife sprang to her feet and faced him. He stopped with an uneasy laugh before the splendid figure of the woman drawn up toher full height, and met her measured look of courage and contempt. Then he turned again toward his counsel, speaking in an ugly undertone.
“See here, Sargent, I’m not going to make a fool of myself before all these people. Get the officers to bring the children out to the carriage.”
But Sargent did not reply, and for a moment there was dead silence in the Court Room.
Fenton stooped toward his counsel.
“What do you think you’re paid for?” he whispered menacingly.
What was he paid for? That was plain talk—that made the truth stand out clearly! He was the hireling of this man—not his associate. He was hired to do contemptible work and he had done it,—was doing it. No wonder his employer stood ready with insult to show how he despised his creature. It was perfectly safe. An officer of the Court was bound by professional duty and gagged by confidential communications. He must sit still and see this outrage on Justice perpetrated. Even aid in it. And for what? For money. How far had he sold himself—how much of his manhood was includedin the purchase? He could retire from the case? Yes, after the day’s dirty work was finished and the wrong could not be righted.
If he raised his hand to stop this thing, how many lawyers in the City would uphold him? Not many in the Titan Building. It was easy to foreshadow the construction which would be placed upon his conduct. He could almost hear the fierce denunciation. To defend himself he would have to violate professional secrecy still further. True, there were those who would understand—men to whom their calling was and always would be “the honourable profession of the law”—men who would never permit the Law’s mantle of dignity to become a cloak for the vicious. But the others—“the high average”? Had he the courage to face their verdict?
Perspiration poured down Sargent’s face and his hand shook with suppressed wrath as Fenton rose and again addressed the Court.
“I presume your Honour will enforce your order? I don’t wish to make a scene.”
The Justice looked inquiringly at the lawyers, but neither of them made any sign.
“Madam,” he said at last, “I have awardedyour husband the custody of his children pending this action. You will kindly put no obstacle in the way of the execution of my order.”
The chairs of the leerers grated on the floor with eagerness, and the skirts of the shameless shivered with delicious tremors.
Ah—this was worth coming for! A woman’s tenderest feelings were to be exposed and crushed. Privacy was to be invaded—delicacy was to be unveiled—the sacred was to be handled. Ah—this well repaid the waiting!
Mrs. Fenton flushed as the Judge addressed her, and then grew ashy pale as she answered.
“You have no right, no man has any right, to dispose of my children. They shall not leave me! I will not permit it!”
The Judge glanced at the bulging eyes and gaping mouths of the audience and frowned angrily.
“Officer,” he said sharply, “take those children and deliver them to the defendant.”
There are moments when the Bar does not envy the Bench.
As the Judge’s words reached her, the young mother leaped to her feet and swept the children behind her. Then she backed toward thewall and crouched there like some magnificent wild thing, trembling with that mingling of terror and courage which warns the fiercest beast to caution.
“Let him,” she panted, hoarsely, “let him come—come and take them if—if he dare!”
Mr. Harding rose and stepped toward the woman, laying his hand gently upon her arm. She gazed at him for an instant with no recognition in her eyes, then flung her arms about his neck and laughed the hideous shuddering laughter of hysteria.
Here was entertainment indeed! A red-letter day in the annals of the audience! To-morrow the Court Room would be packed with expectants—all the floating population of the Rotunda would be on hand.
The Judge seemed to think of this.
“Remove that woman!” he ordered.
A court officer stepped forward, and at the same time Fenton moved toward the children.
Then Sargent’s voice broke the stillness of the Court.
“If your Honour please, I wish to withdraw the motion in this case.”
There was a moment of absolute, breathless silence.
Then Fenton sprang to his feet.
“Withdraw?” he almost shouted. “What do you mean? This is my case. It’s been decided in my favour. I won’t permit it!”
Sargent only addressed the Court as he answered,
“Nevertheless, I withdraw the motion.”
The Justice looked steadily at the lawyer’s face, and his gaze was not without a trace of approval.
“I must warn you, Counsellor,” he said at length, “that this is very unusual. It is a most serious matter.”
“I will take all responsibility, your Honour.”
“Very well, Mr. Sargent. You consent, I presume, Mr. Harding? I am not sure that I have the power, but if not, the error can be corrected by appeal. Mark the motion, ‘withdrawn.’”
“This is treachery!” Fenton shouted at his lawyer. “I’ll have you disbarred, Sir! You’ll lose every client you’ve got——”
“But I’ll keep my self-respect,” answered Sargent, in a whisper.
“I’ll have you disbarred, Sir!—I’ll ruin youutterly. Your Honour, he’s conspired with the other side—he used to be in their office. I can prove——”
“Clear the Court Room!” thundered the Justice.
Outside in the Rotunda the audience placed Sargent on trial and straightway condemned him. In legal circles his conduct was denounced, eulogised, and on the whole deplored.
But the Court of Conscience (hear the cynic mutter “Court of last resort!”) held him guiltless, and from its judgment there is no appeal.
Valentine Willard was not a bad fellow at heart, although Gordon will never admit it. But Gordon is a crank who carries his professional enmity into private life.
Their trouble began about an “affidavit of merits.”
Gordon had a case in which he was about to enter judgment, when Willard blocked him off with an extension obtained from the Court by means of an affidavit, in which he swore that “his client had fully and fairly stated the matter to him, and from that statement he verily believed the defendant had a good and substantial defence to the action upon the merits.”
This, of course, was utter fiction. There was no thought of a defence. But delay defeats, and later Willard withdrew, allowing Gordon to take the twenty-fifth instead of the first judgment against his man.
The same thing is done every day of practice in the City of New York. Lawyers whoare Officers of the Court prostitute the Court with cheerful zeal—men with a high sense of self-respect in their private lives, demean themselves beyond expression in their professional careers—gentlemen who would not stoop to the slightest equivocation up-town, perjure themselves for money down-town, or teach their clerks to do it for them. It is not a pretty practice, but Gordon ought to have known the custom. However, being young at that time, it still shocked him. To-day he says it only fills him with disgust. But he was just as much of a crank then as he is now, so he took Willard’s affidavit before the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association.
He might have seen the smile on the faces of his auditors as he told his story, had he not been blinded by zeal. However the Chairman was grave and judicial enough when he announced it was not the province of the Committee to take up the quarrels of counsel, and that they did not propose to investigate light accusations of perjury.
Indeed, the Chairman was so very judicial, and his speech so well delivered, that he might have been suspected of having said something of the same sort before under similar circumstances.But Gordon, crank that he was, thought of nothing but his point, and stoutly maintained that false swearing was being practised every day by lawyers, great and small—that tricks and treachery were personal matters reflecting on but not involving the profession as a whole, while licensed perjury was a travesty of law, striking at the very foundations of Justice. So he went on, boiling over with intensity and utterly innocent of tact.
But when the Chairman stopped him and said something about “seeking aid in legislative action,” or “going before a Grand Jury,” Gordon, young as he was, looked straight into the speaker’s eyes and drank in experience, if not wisdom, from their glance.
Later on Willard’s client quarrelled with his counsel, and put into Gordon’s hands the very proofs he needed. But the Grievance Committee never saw them, for Gordon locked the papers in his safe and spoke no word.
But that did not close the episode.
It was, however, the beginning of the end as far as Gordon and Willard were concerned.
More than a year passed before the two men met again. Willard had in the meantime been appointed an Assistant District Attorney, andpractised only in the Criminal Courts. Their encounter was entirely a matter of accident, though Gordon doesn’t think so. Nevertheless, the facts are that Gordon chanced to wander into General Sessions while waiting for some papers, and happened to find hisbête-noirprosecuting a case of burglary, and it was merely a matter of habit that caused him to study the prisoner as closely as he did.
The man’s face was gentle, and almost expressionless in its vague wonder at the scene before him. Something had its grip on him—just what he did not seem to know—but something monstrous and merciless in its mechanism, and something was being said about him—just what he did not appear to comprehend.
Gordon watched the listless figure, and the weary droop of the head, and interpreted for himself.
Perhaps the poor wretch had struggled when arrested, but without avail—had stormed and protested to the sergeant at the police station, with no result—had denied and explained to the Magistrate at the hearing, but to no end. The Law—a hideous Something—resistless in its power, relentless in its purpose, wanted him. These men—the one on the Bench, theone behind the rail, those others in uniform—wished him out of the way. Perhaps he had concluded he could best propitiate them by giving as little trouble as possible. So he sat there inert and silent, fascinated into non-resistance, watching the doors of his prison open somewhat as a rabbit must watch the widening jaws of a snake.
It is impossible to comprehend the feeling without experiencing it, but Gordon was a lonely sort of man, who sometimes felt himself apart from, instead of a part of, the universe, and so he understood.
Mr. Assistant District Attorney Willard was presenting his case ably, handling his points with so much care that Gordon asked the policeman sitting beside him if the trial was of any importance.
“Importance? Well, I should say so! Don’t you see the Chief sitting up near the rail?”
Gordon glanced in the direction indicated and observed the Chief of Police, note book in hand, watching every move of the District Attorney.
“Who is he?” he asked, nodding toward the prisoner.
“Why the larrup says his name is Winter—and don’t he look innocent? Well, he’s really Red Farrell, a crook we’ve been after for years. But there’s nothin’ much gets by us, I guess.—Eh?”
But Gordon was studying the prisoner again and did not respond.
Winter? Where had he heard that name? Why, of course, Winter was the married name of his old nurse, who had been in his father’s family for thirty years. But who was this man?
“Mr. Duncan——”
Gordon turned as he heard the whisper behind him and found himself face to face with the very woman of whom he had been thinking.
“Why, Margaret, what are you doing here?”
“O, Mr. Duncan—it’s him.”
“Who?”
“Jack—there—my son.” She glanced toward the prisoner.
Gordon motioned toward the door and they passed out together into the Rotunda.
“O, Mr. Duncan, can you save him?—You will, won’t you, dearie? He’s my only boy! Indeed, indeed, he’s not guilty for all he’s beena wild lad at times. O, why do they say he’s Red Farrell, or some such man? O please tell them, Mr. Duncan.”
And then the story came out with a burst of tears which the Rotunda saw and heard without any emotion whatsoever. It has witnessed so many tears—that Rotunda—heard so many, many stories.
Before Court adjourned Gordon found himself committed to aid in the defence of John Winter—his first criminal case. By evening he was working enthusiastically, confident in the innocence of his client.
Winter was a stupid fellow and impossible as a witness, but this only further convinced his new counsel, who believed a bad witness could not be a good liar. But the defence had been poorly prepared at the hands of the attorney assigned by the Court. Proper witnesses had not been subpœnaed—details had been neglected, while the prosecution seemed unusually keen. This last fact worried and puzzled Gordon more than all the others, and finally started him out on a tour of personal investigation.
When he returned he had learned enough to make him admit that with the time at hiscommand there was small hope of clearing his man from the closely pressed charge.
One chance, however, remained—to see the Assistant District Attorney and obtain an adjournment. But to beg a favour from that source was gall and wormwood to Gordon. Moreover, what he had discovered was not calculated to cool his hot head or make him more diplomatic. So the mission did not promise well, and he had about determined not to attempt it, when the look of despair and mute appeal in Margaret’s face made him reconsider, and drove him late at night to visit a man he would have gone miles to avoid.
The Assistant District Attorney was the opposite of Gordon in every way—smooth, politic, even tempered, and ambitious to drop the word “Assistant” from his title. This, it was rumoured, he would do at the next election. In an encounter between these two men it was not difficult to foresee with whom would rest the advantage.
Willard welcomed Gordon to his study and opened with easy commonplaces. But Gordon, hopelessly fanatic and stiff-necked in his honesty, disdained the aid of conventions and pushed directly to his point.
“Mr. Willard, you are prosecuting a young man—John Winter by name——”
“Ah yes, I thought I saw you at the trial to-day, but didn’t know you practised in the Criminal Courts. Yes,—John Winter, alias Red Farrell.”
“I do not think so and that is why I am here. This young man is the son of Margaret Winter, an old family servant of ours on whose word I would stake my life. I have examined the prisoner and some of the witnesses, and am sure a mistake is being made and that I can prove the man’s innocence.”
“Well, I shall at least have the satisfaction of being beaten by a worthy adversary. But you didn’t come here merely to throw down the gauntlet, Mr. Gordon.”
The District Attorney smiled inquiringly at his visitor.
“No, Sir. I want you to withdraw a juror in this case and consent to a mistrial. Meanwhile we can both make further investigations and the cause of Justice will not suffer.”
If the speaker had asked for his head, Willard’s face could not have expressed more absolute amazement. He stared in silence for amoment—then checked a sudden inclination to laugh and answered calmly enough:
“Of course you have not practised very extensively in the Criminal Courts, Mr. Gordon, or you would know that what you ask is really absurd.”
The expression was unfortunate and Gordon blazed up instantly.
“I see nothing absurd about it, Sir. I ask you for time to ascertain this man’s guilt or his innocence which cannot now be properly determined.—Do you mind telling me just why this seems absurd to the District Attorney?”
The speaker’s tone and manner would have nettled a man less on his guard, but Willard only laughed pleasantly as he answered:
“The District Attorney’s office is satisfied to proceed, and you will admit the case must be fairly strong when we are undaunted by the presence of distinguished counsel.”
“This is no matter for jests, Mr. Willard. Do you consider that the duty of the District Attorney is to convict as many persons as possible—to win as many cases as you can?”
“O come, come, Mr. Gordon, we are not here to discuss ethical questions.”
“Mr. Willard, I am not here to be trifledwith or side-tracked. Will you tell me what investigations you have made to ascertain if this man is innocent or not?”
The District Attorney leaned back wearily in his chair and gazed at the earnest face confronting him. Then he lazily reached for a cigarette.
“I am trying to keep my temper and be polite,” he replied, “but you surely do not expect me to detail my case to my adversary?”
“Your case? Is that how you term the solemn duty you are charged with? Does the District Attorney condescend to tricks—does he hope to make convictions by surprise?”
Willard struck a match angrily, but he applied it to the cigarette in his mouth before he answered:
“Red Farrell must pay you a good fee, Mr. Gordon, to make this worth your while.”
For a moment Gordon was the cooler man of the two.
“Is it not the duty of the District Attorney to ascertain the truth?” he asked as though the other had not spoken. “Are you, a public officer, interested in withholding any part of the truth? Have you anything to conceal?”
“Mr. Gordon, I do not propose to listen to these insinuations——”
“Let us cease bantering then, Mr. Willard. I am ready to talk plainly. Must I?”
“You must indeed, unless you wish me to interpret for myself.”
He flicked the ashes from his cigarette and glanced with a bored expression toward the clock.
But Gordon did not speak until Willard’s eyes met his again.
“Very well then. I will see that you understand. The police have been hunting a man called Red Farrell, but they have not been successful. The Chief has blamed the Captains—the Captains the detectives, and the papers have ridiculed them all. The police of other cities too have twitted them about it. Suddenly this young man is arrested under suspicious circumstances. No one seems particularly interested in him or knows much about him. Why shouldn’t he be Red Farrell? He is Red Farrell. Do you understand me?”
“I hear you making a very nasty and uncalled-for charge against the police of this City and——”
“One that you well know has both foundationand precedent. You know the men who compose the force. So do I. They have the same pride and ambition and morals that other men have. No more and no less. They discover Red Farrell and remove a reproach. Suppose Winter isn’t Farrell—well, he’s probably guilty anyhow.They want to win cases too!”
“Mr. Gordon, you have said about enough——”
“To persuade you that this is a proper case for further investigation?”
“No, Sir, and I will tell you right now that this case will not be adjourned for one hour!”
Gordon rose to his feet and faced his opponent, wording his question slowly and with deliberate emphasis.
“Of course you personally have no special interest in convicting this particular prisoner?”
Willard sprang from his seat and angrily tossed his cigarette into the fire.
“Mr. Gordon, take care you do not go too far.”
“Are you not especially anxious to win this case?”
“I am prosecuting, Sir, in the name of the People.”
“In the name of the People!”
Gordon laughed the words out with stinging scorn, and the Attorneys faced one another with a rage that in men of less refinement would have set them at each other’s throats. But the grapple was as deadly and the purpose as grim as though the struggle had been physical. There was no possible chance for argument now and Gordon flung off all restraint as he poured forth his torrent of contempt.
“In the name of the People! What people gave you a commission to tamper with the liberty of the meanest thing alive? What people privileged you to prosecute an innocent man—for you know he is innocent—I have seen it in every false smirk of your face ever since I entered this room. And to prosecute him for what? For your own personal advancement—to win a case for your client. Do you want me to tell you who your client is——”