“You will not be obliging me, Van, but him.”
The veteran clerk gazed at the earnest face of the lawyer for a moment, and then reached out his hand for the letter.
“I’ll try it, Mr. Martin,” he whispered.
It was some moments before the Justice noticed Van standing near his chair, and raised his eyes inquiringly. The clerk held out the folded piece of paper, but Blagden frowned and impatiently waved the official away. For a moment Van lingered, but when the Magistrate swung his chair so as to turn his back on the interruption, he rejoined Martin and handed him the rejected note, with a smile and a shrug.
Martin took it and sat down again with a distinct feeling of relief. He had done all he could. If there was anything wrong with the order he had tried his best to call it to the Judge’s attention, and that pompous fool had rejected the opportunity. He might as well hand up the Phelps vs. Orson papers and go back to the office.
Martin pulled the small bundle out of his pocket and studied the indorsement. Phelps against Orson? Why, that must be the case Dick Phelps had talked about for half an hour at the Club the other night. Of course it was—Allison was his attorney. Well, that was rather odd. Martin wrote “submitted” on the first paper in the bundle, and then glanced at the Bench. The green order was fourth from the top.
Why the devil did his heart keep thumping with excitement! He had done more than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would do. Anything more would be asinine interference for which he would have time to repent at leisure. He’d get right out of that stifling Court Room—
“Phelps against Orson” called the Judge.
For a heart-beat Martin hesitated. Then he rose to his feet and walking directly to the Counsel’s table slipped the rubber band from his bundle of papers and sat down.