“Will you trust it to me?”
“Certainly, and very glad to do so,” replied Bar. “It’s only a trouble to me. I can’t even open it, and sometimes I lie awake at nights, wondering what there may be in it.”
“I’ve been almost up to that point myself,” said the Judge. “I want to say one thing more. I will keep your promise for you as to opening it, unless I can get you formally released from it. How is that?”
“I’ve nothing to say,” replied Bar. “I never did break my word, and I never mean to. That’s all I care for.”
“You’re pretty safe then,” said the Judge. “But tell me, who is this Mr. Brayton?”
Bar gave him all the information in his power, but Judge Danver’s face seemed to grow more and more cloudily thoughtful all the while.
“Nice people, all of them, no doubt,” he said, at last; “but they may or may not be good friends of yours. I won’t say any more just now, only this: If you get a telegram from me to come to the city, tell nobody but Val where you are going, or why, and just come right along. Have you money enough?”
“Plenty!” said Bar.
“Then I must be off. Take care of yourself, my boy, and give my compliments to that Zebedee Fuller. There’s the making of a man in him.”
Judge Danvers probably meant “The making of a lawyer,” for that was his highest ideal of man—and perhaps he was not far wrong, considering the kind of lawyer he had made of himself. And so Bar was left to apologize as best he might to all inquirers for the sudden appearance and disappearance of his “distinguished counsel.”