What he had heard had made a vast change in things. Before it everything had seemed simple; and now nothing was clear. He was overwhelmed with a sense of the utter futility of his efforts; he was trying to build a house upon quicksands. There was nowhere a solid spot upon which he could set his foot. There was nowhere any truth—there were only contending powers who used the phrases of truth for their own purposes! And now he saw himself as the world saw him,—a party to a piece of trickery,—a knave like all the rest. He felt that he had been tripped up at the first step in his career. The conclusion of the whole matter was that he took an afternoon train for Albany; and the next morning he talked the matter out with the Judge. Montague had realized the need of going slowly, for, after all, he had no definite ground for suspicion; and so, very tactfully and cautiously he explained, that it had come to his ears that many people believed there were interested parties behind the suit of Mr. Hasbrook; and that this had made him uncomfortable, as he knew nothing whatever about his client. He had come to ask the Judge’s advice in the matter. No one could have taken the thing more graciously than did the great man; he was all kindness and tact. In the first place, he said, he had warned him in advance that enemies would attack him and slander him, and that all kinds of subtle means would be used to influence him. And he must understand that these rumours were part of such a campaign; it made no difference how good a friend had brought them to him—how could he know who had brought them to that friend? The Judge ventured to hope that nothing that anyone might say could influence him to believe that he, the Judge, would have advised him to do anything improper. “No,” said Montague, “but can you assure me that there are no interested parties behind Mr. Hasbrook?” “Interested parties?” asked the other. “I mean people connected with the Fidelity or other insurance companies.” “Why, no,” said the Judge; “I certainly couldn’t assure you of that.” Montague looked surprised. “You mean you don’t know?” “I mean,” was the answer, “that I wouldn’t feel at liberty to tell, even if I did know.” And Montague stared at him; he had not been prepared for this frankness. “It never occurred to me,” the other continued, “that that was a matter which could make any difference to you.” “Why—” began Montague.