So, the Hon. Justice was playing tricks, was he—and not very good tricks either? He was on the point of being exposed—was he? Well, it was about time something happened to those noiseless wheels of the little tin god! People were beginning to believe there was something miraculous in his transit. It had long been heretical to suggest either pull or push. But both agencies have to be paid for in one way or another, and at some time.—To pay whom or what was this green-covered order required?—What a shock it would be for the worshippers to see their metal divinity wobbling on his stand and to hear the shrieking of his squeaky rollers! Fortunately for him some of his triumphs were secure, but it would be interesting for at least one person to discover—— No, she would never discover anything. Charlie would tell her it was all right—and that would make it so.—“Charlie,” indeed!—Ugh!
A sharp movement in front of him aroused Martin from his bitter musing. The young reporter was leaning forward in his chair, staring at a little clean-shaven Hebrew who had entered the room and was leaning on the rail, a green-covered legal paper in his hand.
Van took the document from the messenger, shook it open and placed it at the bottom of the pile of orders on the Judge’s desk. The Court had already begun to hear arguments, and as the Counsel talked the Judge occasionally took up one of these orders and signed it. Clerks kept entering the room from time to time, handing papers and orders to Van, who added them to the rapidly-increasing pile on the Judge’s desk.
Meanwhile Martin stared at the green edge of the order in which The Guardian took such a lively interest. How did that paper come to know its contents? The Guardian was politically opposed to the Judge’s party—was, indeed, the semi-official organ of the enemy. It could not be in the confidence of the Judge’s friends. No avenue of exposure would be more carefully watched than that which led to the columns of The Guardian. There must be a traitor in the camp. Or perhaps some honest man, despising underhand methods, had given the clue to the most effective police. But if an honest man desired to protect his party, would he not frustrate the scheme rather than expose it after it was accomplished? Yes, some traitor must be selling information to the opposition. The Guardian certainly would not hesitate to buy dirty secrets. It was savagely partisan—unscrupulous and daring. It fairly slobbered with the froth of sensation—lived on scandal, and obtained its pabulum by any and every means. Thus far there had been little to feed upon in the career of the Hon. Charles Blagden. But it would not shrink from providing itself with carrion if a touch of one of its underground wires would suffice.—Might not The Guardian know the history of the green-covered order at first hand?
Martin dismissed the thought again and again, but it gathered strength and substance and forced itself upon him. He recalled the words of the Boss Reporter about Blagden’s never having sat at Chambers before. He had explained that that was “just the point.” And the point was—? Obviously that the work at Chambers was hurried, and that a novice would be apt to sign papers without due deliberation.
What could be easier for a sheet like The Guardian than to trump up a legal proceeding of some sort, and to concoct, with the aid of cunning lawyers, an order unobjectionable on its face, but which would compromise the reputation of any Judge who signed it? If the plot miscarried, the conspirators could readily cover their tracks and make good their escape.—It was a dangerous game but not a new one.
And if all this were so, what had he, Martin, to do with it?
Of course if Blagden was playing tricks he deserved to get caught and no one but the hero-worshippers could be expected to cry.—But if he was being tricked?—That was just the question to be decided. He, Martin, was merely a spectator, interested in the event, it is true, but still only an onlooker.—Was that true? Had not that rôle been forfeited when he acquired special information? Was his attitude a perfectly passive one? If any other man than Blagden was on the Bench would he not instantly communicate what he had heard? Would he feel no disappointment whatsoever if Blagden refused to sign the order? Frankly—was he not waiting to see his enemy walk into what he believed was a trap?
Martin flushed at the silent self-accusation and instantly pronounced it absurd. What could he do? Any man who goes on the Bench has to assume grave responsibilities and take the risk with the honours. Blagden’s attitude had always been a silent boast of needing no help from anyone. Would not interference give him an opportunity for retorting that “he had the office and Martin the officiousness.” How he would roll that under his tongue!—No, Blagden could take care of himself. He would never thank anyone for playing nurse for him.
The papers on the Judge’s desk were piling higher and higher, and he began to sign or reject them more rapidly as the time wore on. Martin glanced at The Guardian’s order. It was still buried under a dozen others.