The Blind Goddess. Arthur Cheney Train

the brains; Dan does what Dick tells him.”

      “The voice is the voice of Shay, but the hand is the hand of Devens?”

      “You’ve said it! Dick pulled him out of a hole one time, and since then Dan thinks he’s the voice of Almighty God.”

      “How do you know so much about them?”

      “Because we have a retainer from the A. A. and B.—we act as counsel to them in some things. Dan is secretary and treasurer. Devens is chairman of the board—’way out of reach. So if anybody gets into trouble it will be Dan. He won’t mind! He’d go to jail for Dick any time. I guess that’s fair enough too, considering Dick kept him out.”

      He reached for his pipe and refilled it.

      “Ever been up to the Devens’ house?” asked Hugh, endeavouring to conceal his interest under a veil of nonchalance.

      “Sure I have. Not so often as Hoyle, though. He’s Devens’ confidential attorney. When anything comes up that’s likely to attract public attention, he retains fellows like Choate, or Stanchfield, or Elihu Root. But they’re only window dressings. We do the work.”

      Quirk had retired to the corner and was immersed in his book.

      “Did you ever know Mrs. Devens?” asked Hugh. “There’s a picture of her in the dining-room. If she was anything like it she must have been a beauty.”

      “She was!” agreed O’Hara, lighting his pipe upside down from the lamp. “A famous one. Supposed to be the prettiest woman in New York—daughter of old Tibbetts, the dry-goods man—but cold as a stone, and socially on the make. She married Devens for his money and then turned sour because he couldn’t give her the social position that she wanted. Lucky for all of them she died when she did!”

      “Why couldn’t he give her what she wanted?” inquired Hugh.

      “She wanted to be in the smart set—the Newport and Long Island crowd. But as the wife of an Irish Roman Catholic contractor she found she couldn’t make it, even with all his money. It smelt a bit too strong of—well—to use a euphemism—of politics.”

      “Of graft, I suppose you mean?”

      “Oh, say not so!” protested O’Hara. “But I believe Devens did build some hospitals and courthouses for the city—not to mention a few insane asylums, incinerating plants, almshouses, et cetera, et cetera. The swells took her money and went to her big entertainments, ate her suppers, drank her champagne, listened to Jean de Reszke and Melba—and then dropped her. It was too much for her!”

      “From your account of the lady’s character, I shouldn’t say her daughter resembled her in the least,” remarked Hugh.

      O’Hara knocked the ashes from his pipe.

      “She takes more after the old man!” he said. “How about bed?”

      CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      The sun, which had been deflected so obliquely into the Criminal Court room the afternoon before, lifted over Chinatown and the Five Points and hit Hugh squarely between the eyes. Through the crack of the door leading into the kitchen crept the smell of bacon and coffee, and the murmur of voices. He was possessed with a fierce desire for food, tempered only by his aversion to getting out of bed. It was going to be cold. He could tell that by his frosty breath. Then his alarm clock went off with the clatter of a steam riveter.

      Grabbing up the coverlet, he wrapped it about his shoulders, seized the still sputtering clock, and cleared the intervening space to the kitchen in a single leap.

      Ignatius O’Hara, his face covered with lather, was shaving himself by the window in his undershirt. Jeffrey Quirk, his wig hanging from the gas jet, was in his customary posture before the stove, the line of separation between his features and his bald pate so definitely marked as to give almost the impression of his having on a false face, made, possibly, of green cheese.

      A copper boiler simmered on one side of the stove, and on the other a steaming coffee-pot.

      Hugh bade the others good morning, filled a tin basin from the boiler, and carried it to the sink.

      “Fried, poached, or boiled, Mr. Dillon?” inquired Quirk mechanically.

      “Fried for me!—Three of ’em!” grunted O’Hara between scrapes. “I haven’t made up yet for the meal I lost last night. I dreamt of a mutton chop as big as a rubric, and a mug of musty the size of a bishop’s chalice.”

      “I’ll do my own!” spluttered Hugh from behind the roller towel. “Why don’t you put on your wig, Quirk?”

      “I thought it was on!” replied Quirk, trying to adjust it with one hand. “Do you notice any difference in its colour, Mr. O’Hara?”

      “No more than might be attributed to the change of season,” replied his master. “As I recall, it was a soft and gentle green last spring. But this is autumn—when the leaves are red—or is it yellow?”

      Quirk held it off for inspection.

      “That was because it fell into a pail of borax water,” he explained, as Hugh lifted off the frying-pan and took his seat at the table.

      “What’s on the calendar this morning?” he asked.

      “A bunch of stuff over in the police court—but Quirk can hold most of it—adjourn it for a couple of days until we can look it over—a Tong murder, and one or two little things of that sort,” answered O’Hara. “Then there are a couple of motions in Part I, and five pleadings. I’ll attend to the motions, but you’ll have to handle the rest. You can plead ’em all guilty then and there if they haven’t any money. I’ve got a habeas corpus returnable before Judge Lawrence in Part II of the Supreme Court at eleven o’clock. A fairly busy morning. When is your next case?”

      “My next case is the first one I can force the district attorney to try,” said Hugh. “Three of our clients have been rotting over there in the Tombs for a month, when there’s not a shred of credible evidence against them. Look at Renig! He was in the Tombs three weeks before he was tried! Who can say there isn’t one law for the poor and another for the rich?”

      “Well, don’t look at me!” said O’Hara. “I didn’t.”

      “It’s true all the same!” Hugh continued, waving his coffee spoon toward the Tombs. “That place over there is just a pest-house. Every man and woman that goes in there comes out infected with some social distemper. I’ll bet Renig is half Bolshevik already. I’d be, in his place! Justice is the basis of everything, isn’t it? We ought to administer the law as well as we play baseball, oughtn’t we?”

      “Sure! We ought to!” agreed O’Hara. “But don’t forget, my bonny boy, that meantime we’re making a pretty good living out of its injustices!”

      The law office of Hoyle & O’Hara was no less conveniently situated than the residence of the junior partner, being also on Franklin Street, fifty yards nearer Broadway. It occupied the ground floor of a brick building opposite “Pontin’s,” a restaurant much frequented by both prosecutors and lawyers, as well as by their clients and witnesses. A stout rail curbed the cupidity or apprehension of the prospective client until his business was made fully known to the hawk-faced youth who sat on guard. Here perforce until the word was forthcoming which admitted him to the august presence of one of the partners, he must kick his heels on a wooden bench in company with a waiting throng of sly-faced youths in fear of jail, widows seeking damages for their bereavement, young ladies who had been “taken advantage of,” elderly gentlemen who were being “annoyed” and were seeking relief therefrom, and all the others of the miscellany making up the firm’s clientèle.

      The office in the rear overlooking the withered plane-trees