Schuyler Tenney interposed, impassively: “He may not have heard of the application, Judge. You must remember that, for the sake of appearances, he then being in partnership, you were made Mrs. Minster’s attorney, in both the agreements. That is how notices came to be served on you.” The Judge had not taken his eyes off the young man in the velveteen jacket. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t learned from Mrs. Minster that this man Tracy has made applications on behalf of the daughters to upset the trust agreement, and to have a receiver appointed to overhaul the books of the Mfg. Company?” Horace sat up straight. “Good God, no!” he stammered. “I’ve heard nothing of that.” “You never do seem to hear about things. What did you suppose you were here for, except to watch Mrs. Minster, and keep track of what was going on?” demanded Wendover. “I may tell you,” answered Horace, speaking hesitatingly, “that circumstances have arisen which render it somewhat difficult for me to call upon Mrs. Minster at her house--for that matter, out of the question. She has only been to my office office within the--the last fortnight.” Schuyler Tenney spoke again. “The ‘circumstances’ means, Judge, that he--” “Pardon me, Mr. Tenney,” said Horace, with decision: “what the circumstances mean is neither your business nor that of your friend. That is something that we will not discuss, if you please.” “Won’t we, though!” burst in Wendover, peremptorily. “You make a fool of us. You go sneaking around one of the girls up there. You think you’ll set yourself in a tub of butter, and let our schemes go to the devil. You try to play this behind our backs. You get kicked out of the house for your impudence. And then you sit here, dressed like an Italian organ-grinder, by God, and tell me that we won’t discuss the subject!” Horace rose to his feet, with all his veins tingling. “You may leave this room, both of you,” he said, in a voice which he with difficulty kept down. His face was pale with rage. Judge Wendover rose, also, but it was not to obey Horace’s command. Instead, he pointed imperiously to the chair which the young man had vacated. “Sit down there,” he shouted. “Sit down, I tell you! I warn you, I’m in no mood to be fooled with. You deserve to have your neck wrung for what you’ve done already. If I have another word of cheek from you, by God, it _shall_ be wrung! We’ll throw you on the dungheap as we would a dead rat.” Horace had begun to listen to these staccato sentences with his arms folded, and lofty defiance in his glance. Somehow, as he looked into his antagonist’s blazing eyes, his courage melted before their hot menace. The pudgy figure of the Judge visibly magnified itself under his gaze, and the threat in that dry, husky voice set his nerves to quaking. He sank into his seat again. “All right,” he said, in an altered voice. “I’m willing enough to talk, only a man doesn’t like to be bullied in that way in his own house.”