“The ways of the law,” answered Marshall, with cold judicial accent, “the ways of the law, Mr. Allyne, are not as our ways. The law proceeds without sentiment or bias, and must go straight to its object in the light of fact.”
“But, I tell you, the facts can’t be as Fair states them to be, don’t you know,” retorted Allyne hotly, galled by the lawyer’s coolness and formality.
“Then Mr. Fair has nothing to fear,” quietly replied Marshall. “It is ten o’clock. Fair is a punctual man—he will be here immediately. Suppose that we allow him to explain himself.”
“I’ll be hanged if I will let him go too far. Why, gentlemen, this is monstrous! Do you mean to say, Marshall, that you——?”
A knock interrupted Allyne, and immediately Fair came in, looking not at all as though he could possibly be the subject of his friend’s anxiety.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Fair began, “to learn from your laundress, Marshall, that my telegram brought you back to town from the country. I promise you it won’t happen again.”
“Nonsense,” returned Marshall, studying Fair closely, “I was only too glad of an excuse to come back to town. You know, we old Templars don’t enjoy the country—been caged here too long for that. Sit down, dear fellow. What can I get up for you—sherry?”
“Thanks, nothing for me. Perhaps the others——”
“Lord, no!” roared Allyne before Marshall could ask.
“Well, then, to the point,” said Fair, seating himself calmly and lighting a cigar with the air of a director of a company about to discuss the treasurer’s report. “Travers has told you, Marshall?”