“You must not be seen speaking to her—or to any one of the interested parties, for that matter. Do you want to have her accused of bribery or—er—complicity?”
“I thought she was going to speak to me,” stammered No. 7.
“Well, she wasn't. She has too much sense for that. Good Lord, if counsel for the State saw you doing that sort of thing, they'd suspect something in a second.”
“Haven't you read about those jury-fixing scandals?” exclaimed the chubby bachelor, surprisingly red in the face. He had almost reached his own hat when Sampson spoke. Four or five of the others glowered upon the offending No. 7. “We can't even be seen bowing to anybody connected with the case.”
“I saw you throw your cigar away when she came in the door,” retorted No. 7, in some exasperation. “What did you do that for?”
The chubby bachelor looked hurt. “Because I was through with it,” he said. “I don't hang onto 'em till they burn my lips, you know.” He deemed it advisable to resort to sarcasm.
“Just remember that you are a juror,” advised No. 4 in a friendly tone. One might have thought he was compassionate.
“No harm done,” said No. 12. “She didn't even see you. I happen to know, because she was lookin' right at me when you took off your lid. You didn't notice me fiddling with my head-piece, did you? I guess not. She don't expect us to, and so I didn't make any crack. I—”
“I'd suggest,” said Sampson, with dignity, “that we devote a certain amount of respect to the ethics.”
It was a little puzzling. Ethics is a word that calls for reflection. You've got to know just what it means, and after you know that much about it, you've got to fix its connection. Several of the gentlemen nodded profoundly, and two of them said: “Well, I should say so.” That night Sampson sat alone in front of his fireplace, his brow clouded by uneasy, disturbing thoughts. A woodfire crackled and simmered on the huge Florentine andirons. Turple, coming in to inquire if he would speak with Mrs. Fitzmorton on the telephone, was gruffly instructed to say that he was not at home, and when Turple returned with the word that Mrs. Fitzmorton was at home and still expecting him to dine at her house that evening, notwithstanding the fact that her guests and her dinner had been waiting for him since eight o'clock—and it was now 8:45—Sampson groaned so dismally that his valet was alarmed. The groan was succeeded, however, by a far from feeble expression of self-reproach, and a tremendous scurrying into overcoat and hat. He reached Mrs. Fitzmorton's house—it happened to be in the next block north—in less than three minutes, and he was so engagingly contrite, and so terribly good-looking, that she forgave him at once—which was more than the male members of the party did.