“The name’s common enough; I’ve known a number of Corrigans.”
“But,” the lawyer continued, “there have been instances of Corrigans ceasing to be Corrigans and becoming something else.”
“You mean,” Amidon replied, meeting Eaton’s eyes as they were bent suddenly upon him, “that a Corrigan might become a Farley. Am I right?”
“Quite right. I was just wondering whether you had picked up anything about this particular case down along the river. I have no interest in it whatever—only the idlest curiosity. I happened to recall that Miss Farley had been a Corrigan; I have a note of that somewhere.”
He swung his chair round and surveyed the file-cases back of him. His gaze fell upon a drawer marked F, as though he were reading the contents through the label—a feat which Amidon thought not beyond Eaton’s powers.
Jerry resented the idea that Nan Farley might still be affected by the lawless deeds of any of her kinsfolk; he became increasingly uncomfortable the more he reflected that the lawyer, with all his indifference, would not be discussing this subject unless he had some reason for doing so.
“It was stated that this particular Corrigan had wealthy connections—that always sounds well in such news items, as though rich relations were a mitigating circumstance likely to arouse public sympathy. Mere snobbishness, Amidon; and snobbishness is always detestable. If that particular Corrigan hopes to obtain help from a sister now known as Farley, it occurred to me that I ought to possess myself of the fact. You understand that what we’re saying to each other is entirely sub rosa. We’ve never happened to speak of Miss Farley; but having been connected with the Copeland-Farley Company before Farley retired, you probably have heard of her. A very interesting girl—slightly spoiled by prosperity, but really refreshingly original. Do you mind telling me whether you have any reason for believing that the particular Corrigan arrested down there as a suspect, and with those wealthy connections so discreetly suggested in the newspaper, is related in any way to Nan Farley?”
“Well, there was a Corrigan boy, considerably older than I am—probably about thirty now, and not much to brag of. I’ve asked about him now and then when I dropped off at Belleville, and I never heard any good of him—just about the kind of scamp that would mix up in a cutting scrape and get pinched.”
“And who, having been pinched,—what we may call a pinchee, one who has been pinched,—might perhaps remember that he had a prosperous sister somewhere and appeal to her for help? Such things have happened; it would be very annoying for a young woman who had emerged—risen—climbed away from her state of Corriganism, so to speak, to have her relationship with such a person printed in the newspapers of her own city. I merely wish to be prepared for any emergency that may arise. Not, of course, that this is any of my business; but it’s remarkable how other people’s affairs become in a way our own. Somebody has remarked that life is altogether a matter of our reciprocal obligations. There’s much truth in that, Amidon.”
Jerry did not wholly grasp this, but he confirmed it with a nod. Now that Nan Farley had been mentioned, he hoped Eaton would drop life’s reciprocal obligations and talk of her; and he began describing his meeting with her, in such manner as to present his quondam schoolmate in the most favorable light.