“It isn’t money I want from them,” Martinez replied, between his teeth.
Judge Gordon lived in a rambling adobe house two squares from the Hosmer dwelling. It was old but had been kept in good repair, and as he had never married he had lived comfortably enough with an old Mexican pair as servants. One of these, the woman, admitted the visitors at their knock and conducted them, as if expected, to the Judge’s study, a long room lined with cases of books, mostly legal, and filled with old-fashioned furniture.
That something had occurred to change the Judge’s aspect during the hours in which Pollock had been closeted with him was at once apparent. He looked older, broken, haggard of face, terrified.
“I met Mr. Martinez and brought him along,” Weir said.
“Was that necessary?” Judge Gordon asked, heavily.
“He’s my attorney, for one thing.”
“And I’ve been a prisoner in Vorse’s cellar for twenty-four hours for another, and you’re one of those responsible for my being there and for the torture to which I was subjected,” Martinez exclaimed, glaring.
“Mr. Martinez, I give you my word of honor that I knew nothing of your incarceration until this morning.”
“That for your word of honor!” the lawyer cried, snapping his fingers in the air. “And in any case, you’re an accessory after the fact. You let me stay.”