MR. ROQUEVILLARD burst into his office like a whirlwind, and his two colleagues rose from their discussion immediately and came forward to meet him. They could not conceal their surprise on finding, instead of a man struck down by despair over the death of his oldest son, the Roquevillard of other times, the man so redoubtable at the bar, to whom one went with difficult and stirring cases, on whose clear judgment and firm conclusions one could always depend. Here again was the man whose dominating character one chafed under sometimes as one quailed before his piercing glance. “I have made you wait,” he said easily, dispensing with excuses. In his presence, Mr. Hamel, with his crown of white hair, his delicate features, and the slightly affected and distinguished air that composed his venerable whole, and Mr. Battard, with his spreading beard, his air of assuming everywhere the first rank, seemed, nevertheless, both to recognise their leader; one with good will, the other grudgingly. All assumptions of superiority fell away before these other and more incontestable tokens. “My good friend,” murmured the elder man, his hand stretched out. “My dear colleague,” was the formula of the younger. They conveyed their condolences to him, one cordially and with emotion, the other in trite phrases. “Yes,” replied their host, stopping them with a motion of his hand, “I have only one son left. That one I am going to save. I must save him; and here’s the plan I have decided on.” This last consultation had been called by the three lawyers to check up some definite plan of defence together, and lo, the opinion of a single one was prevailing in advance, without other consultation. “Ah!” exclaimed the president, subdued by so much confidence and firmness. “Decided?” repeated Mr. Battard with an air of doubt, divided between respect for his friend’s mourning and a sense of his own importance. Mr. Roquevillard disclosed his idea promptly, in few words; he was very quiet, and his voice had grown young again. “You two will assist me, both of you. But I shall make the argument myself,” he said. “You!” “You!” Astonishment and irritation were reflected in the two exclamations. Mr. Hamel looked at his old companion in arms with his colourless eyes, the flame of life now no more than a trembling light in them, though it was still so pure; while the jury lawyer, unpleasantly affected by his dismissal from a case that would have given him a sensational chance for resounding argument, forgot the circumstances of the trial, and the misfortunes of the temporarily beaten family, and could think only of the opportunity for personal success that was ruthlessly snatched from him. “Yes, I,” said Mr. Roquevillard. “I shall reclaim my son so energetically that they’ll give him back to me. They can’t refuse to give a father back his son.”