Coming out of the church, Montague had met Judge Ellis; and the Judge had said, “I shall soon have something to talk over with you.” So Montague gave him his address, and a day or two later came an invitation to lunch with him at his club.
The Judge’s club took up a Fifth Avenue block, and was stately and imposing. It had been formed in the stress of the Civil War days; lean and hungry heroes had come home from battle and gone into business, and those who had succeeded had settled down here to rest. To see them now, dozing in huge leather-cushioned arm-chairs, you would have had a hard time to guess that they had ever been lean and hungry heroes. They were diplomats and statesmen, bishops and lawyers, great merchants and financiers—the men who had made the city’s ruling-class for a century. Everything here was decorous and grave, and the waiters stole about with noiseless feet.
Montague talked with the Judge about New York and what he had seen of it, and the people he had met; and about his father, and the war; and about the recent election and the business outlook. And meantime they ordered luncheon; and when they had got to the cigars, the Judge coughed and said, “And now I have a matter of business to talk over with you.”
Montague settled himself to listen. “I have a friend,” the Judge explained—“a very good friend, who has asked me to find him a lawyer to undertake an important case. I talked the matter over with General Prentice, and he agreed with me that it would be a good idea to lay the matter before you.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Montague.
“The matter is a delicate one,” continued the other. “It has to do with life insurance. Are you familiar with the insurance business?”
“Not at all.”
“I had supposed not,” said the Judge. “There are some conditions which are not generally known about, but which I may say, to put it mildly, are not altogether satisfactory. My friend is a large policy-holder in several companies, and he is not satisfied with the management of them. The delicacy of the situation, so far as I am concerned, is that the company with which he has the most fault to find is one in which I myself am a director. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Montague. “What company is it?”
“The Fidelity,” replied the other—and his companion thought in a flash of Freddie Vandam, whom he had met at Castle Havens! For the Fidelity was Freddie’s company.