“Oh, yes, you do. You are not only under his orders, but he owns you,—body and soul. How did it come about?”
The old butler looked at his questioner and an expression of abject fear came into his eyes. “N-no, sir,” he said, trembling, “no,—that is not so—”
“Don’t perjure yourself. You do not deceive me in the least. Come now, Stryker, there’s no reason for such secrecy. Tell me frankly, why the judge holds you in the hollow of his hand.”
Stone’s manner was kindly, his voice gentle, though compelling, and the old man looked at him, as if fascinated.
“He saved my life,” he said, slowly, “and so—”
“And so it,—in a way,—belongs to him,” supplemented Stone. “I begin to see. And how did Judge Hoyt save your life, Stryker?”
“Well, sir, it was a long time ago, and I was accused of—of murder, sir,—and Mr. Hoyt, he wasn’t a judge then, he got me off.”
“Even though you were guilty?” and Fleming Stone’s truth-demanding gaze, brought forth a low “yes, sir. But if you knew the whole story, sir—”
“Never mind that, Stryker, I don’t want to know the whole story. It was long ago?”
“Yes, sir, a matter of twenty years now.”