“I’ll be very brief, gentlemen,” Sprague went on, taking out his watch and laying it on the table. “The facts are these. There has been a conspiracy entered into for the purpose of depriving the stockholders of the railroad known as the Nevada Short Line of their property under a form of law. That purpose has apparently succeeded, but I have here”—taking a packet of papers from his pocket—“documentary evidence inculpating various and sundry persons who figure as the conspirators. Three of these persons are here in this room. In another room, namely, in Judge Walsh’s chambers in the Federal Building, there is waiting another and quite informal gathering: it is composed of the leading members of the Bar Association of the Timanyoni District, and it is presided over by Judge Walsh. It is assembled to prevent, if possible, one of the greatest scandals that has ever threatened the fair name of the courts of this State.”
“I object!” shouted Hunniwell, struggling to his feet again; and this time Sprague pushed him back into his chair without ceremony.
“To this statement of fact,” the self-appointed chairman continued, quite as if there had been no interruption, “we will add a demand and impose an alternative. The demand is that the railroad be turned over to its rightful owners at once. If it is not complied with, you, Judge Watson, and you, Mr. Dimmock, and you, Mr. Hunniwell”—indicating each in turn with a squarely pointed forefinger—“may choose your alternative: which is to go with me to Judge Walsh’s chambers, where I shall lay before the gentlemen there assembled this packet of evidence.”
“It’s a bluff!” yelled the attorney for the defence. “Do you think we’re going to be taken in by any such flim-flam as that? We’ll call your bluff, you damned amateur! You don’t dare to show up that evidence here!”
Sprague looked down with a good-natured grin upon the red-headed lawyer. Then he dropped the packet of papers on the table in front of Hunniwell.
“I’ll stay with you,” he said quietly. “Read for yourself. Those are only copies, however. The originals are locked up in Judge Walsh’s safe.”
Hunniwell ran through the papers hurriedly and the color came and went in his florid face. Dimmock was staring straight ahead of him at nothing, and his shapely fingers were beating a nervous tattoo on the arm of his chair. The judge had sunk into a shapeless heap in the easy chair he had chosen and his face was ashen.
At the end of his hasty examination of the papers, Hunniwell looked up, and Stillings, who sat opposite, saw defeat in his eyes.
“If I could speak to Mr. Dimmock and Judge Watson in private—” he suggested; and Sprague nodded. There was a small ante-room at the right of the larger directors’ room, and the three withdrew, the attorney lending the judge a much-needed arm.
Almost immediately the conferees returned, and Hunniwell acted as spokesman.