“Well, you’re on solid ground there, your Honour! Were I the master of every language of earth, past master of all the dead tongues of the ages, a genius in the use of every epithet the rage of man ever spoke, still words would have no power to express my contempt for you!” The Judge shuffled his big feet as if to rise. “Sit still!” John growled. “I’ve come here to-night to demand of you two things.” “You’re in no position to demand anything of me!” spluttered Butler, running his hand nervously through his heavy black hair. “Two things,” John went on evenly: “First revoke your order and restore me to my law practice to-morrow morning.” “Not until you apologise for your criticism.” “That’s what I’m doing now. I profoundly regret the incident. I should have kicked you across the street--criticism was an error of judgment.” Butler shambled to his feet, trembling with rage, pulled nervously at his beard again and gasped: “How dare you insult me in my house!” “It’s my house!” flashed the angry answer. “Your house?” the Judge stammered, again tugging at his beard. “Yes, sit down.” The astonished jurist dropped into his chair, his shifting basilisk eyes dancing with a new excitement. “Your house, your house--why, what--what!” “Yes and you’re going to vacate it within two weeks.” “What do you mean, sir?” demanded the Judge, plucking up his courage for a moment. “I mean that the distinguished jurist, Hugh Butler, who had the honour of presiding over the trial of Jefferson Davis, and now aspires to the leadership of his party in the South, was living in a stolen house when he delivered his famous charge concerning traitors to the grand jury, that morning in Richmond. It is with peculiar personal pleasure that I now brand you to your face--coward, liar, perjurer, thief!” John paused a moment to watch the effects of his words on his enemy. The cold sweat began to appear in the bald spot above the Judge’s forehead, and his answer came with gasping feeble emphasis: “I bought this house and paid for it!” “Exactly!” sneered the younger man. “But I never knew until I got this letter”--he drew the letter from his pocket--“just how you came to buy a house which cost $50,000 for so trifling a sum of money.” “Who wrote that letter?” interrupted the Judge eagerly. “Evidently a friend of yours, once high in your councils, who has grown of late to love you as passionately as I do. And I think he could put a knife into your ribs with as much pleasure.” The Judge winced and glanced nervously into the galleries. “Don’t worry, your Honour. If you take the medicine I prescribe, amputation will not be necessary. Let me read the letter. It’s brief but to the point:” _To John Graham, Esq._