The flare of evil passion in the closing epithet seemed to Harry like a wicked spurt of flame from some sudden crack in cooling lava, leaping out to sear him. His face was turned away--toward the little square of barred window--and his voice was hoarser than usual, as he asked: "Why do you hate him so?" Paddy the Brick hurled the Bible into the corner with an imprecation. He rose to a sitting posture, his features working. "Because he did it for me!" he said. "He might have cleared me ... and he didn't try. And I never took the money they said I stole--never, so help me! It was a put-up job. They 'planted' the stuff on me, when I was drunk. It was a pay-day and I knew they were up to something, for they'd sworn they'd drive me out of the logging-camp--and yet I hadn't sense enough to keep sober!" He gave a harsh and bitter laugh, and his voice rose. "But it was my lawyer friend that really did the business! He was a dead swell--one of your la-de-das with money and automobiles--that played at lawyering. They told me he was a great man and I was fool enough to believe them. What did he care for my case--it was a little one to him! I was nothing but a lumberjack! Why should he soil his kid gloves with me?" He turned to Harry's white face a livid countenance. "So now I'm here," he finished, "and I don't give a rip if I am, either!" "_Woe unto you also, ye lawyers!_" Parallel with the wholesale indictment another text in that self-same book was flashing through Harry's mind: "_For with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged, and with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again._" Was that, after all, no trite generality applicable to a hypothetical hereafter, but a thing true in the minute and multinomial affairs of the present? Did chance, or fate--or whatever the human mind called the great _Deus ex Machinâ_--watch somewhere, with hand upon the lever, adjusting the nice balance to the subtle requirements of some occult law of retribution that, though hidden, was yet as certain as gravitation?