"Mr. Burr." The pink young man turned two shades pinker as he made the correction. "The Judge is engaged."
"I don't believe it."
Mr. Burr laughed unpleasantly and held up his hand. From the other side of a door labelled private—misleadingly, for the Judge's little sanctum, where half the town had the privilege of crowding in and tipping back chairs and smoking, was the nearest approach to a clubroom that the town afforded, now that the Hiawatha Club was no more—muffled voices were faintly audible.
"You can talk to me," said Mr. Burr.
"I can, and I can go away and come back when he's not engaged. He said he'd see me."
"He's changed his mind. He don't want to see you. I know all about your case."
"You've learned a lot in six months."
"Talk like that won't get you anything, Donovan, here or anywhere else," remarked Mr. Burr, reasonably, if somewhat offensively. Admitting it, his client dropped into one of the Judge's big office chairs, and sat there, fingering his cap as he talked, and looking suddenly beaten and tired.
"You're right, Theodore. Well, what's all this you know about my case?"
"Mike Brady sends you here begging when he's ashamed to come himself. It's hard on you, Neil."