Why did he think of it as “The Guardian’s order”? He had no proof of the matter. But were not his suspicions strong enough to excuse a warning? What did he fear? A snub? Well, that was better than “the laughter of the soul against itself when conscience has condemned it, which the soul never hears once in its fulness without hearing it forever after.”
How often he had repeated those lines to himself! What a hopeless, haunting sound they had in them! He hated this man—but was he willing to wear the The Guardian’s mask and hear forever after the hideous laughter of the soul?
Martin glanced again at the Judge’s desk, and then rapidly writing a few words on a piece of paper, folded and addressed it to the Hon. Charles Blagden, and carried it to the Clerk’s desk.
Van, restored to his usual good humour, met him with a smile.
“Why didn’t you come earlier for your papers, Mr. Martin?” he whispered. “I’ve had them here for you ever since Court opened.”
“Much obliged, Van. Just hand this note up to Judge Blagden—will you?”
“I can’t do it, Mr. Martin. His Private Secretary says it’s one of his fads. He won’t even let us hand him telegrams when he’s on the Bench.”
“But this is more important than a telegram, Van,” replied Martin in a low tone. “Hand it up to him and I’ll assume all the responsibility.”
“I’d like to oblige you, Mr. Martin, but——”