The fat little man touched another finger. “Item two: Remember the Daily trial, down home. Chet Thorne. Remember him? Witness for the other side. You was defending Daily. He needed it, too. He was guilty as the devil. Chet told the truth, first trial. But you got a disagreement, just the same. Second trial, Chet lied. You got Daily off. Well, we’ve got Chet. You can’t find him, but we know where he is. And we’ve got his affidavit to why he changed his story. Oh, it was slick! Nobody could get Chet for perjury. Change didn’t amount to enough for that. But it was enough for what you needed. You got away with it then; but Chet’s ready to tell how you got away with it, now.” He stopped again, and the Judge inquired: “Is that all?” Cotterill shook his head. “Not quite. Item three: The matter of the Turner trust, and how it happened the trustee was short, and how the thing was covered up. You were the trustee, Bob. One, Two, Three, and there you have it.” He struck the desk again, triumph inflaming him. “Furthermore,” he cried, voice suddenly shrill. “Furthermore, the story’s ready to spring. This afternoon, petition for your disbarment was filed down home. In a sealed envelop. And the whole story back of it’s in type, right now, down town at the _Chronicle_ office. When I leave here, before midnight tonight, I’ll hit a telephone. If I say one word, the envelop goes into the fire and the type is pied. If I don’t say the word, the envelop’s opened in the morning, and the story’s on the street in the _Chronicle_ before breakfast. There’s the load, Judge.” He shrugged, his hands outspread. “Look it over. Simple enough. Be good and you’ll be happy. Now what do you say?” For a long moment, there was silence in the quiet room; and when the Judge spoke, it was in a gentle, but a decisive tone. “Nor I’ve never permitted myself to be blackmailed, Cotterill,” he replied. The lawyer stormed to his feet; he threw up his hands. “All right!” he cried. “Then it’s bust for you.” The Judge nodded. “Maybe,” he agreed. “Of course, this is old stuff. A little of it true, and a good deal of it lies. Dates back ten--twelve years. Maybe you can make it go. I don’t know. But I do know one thing, Jim. I know you’re a dirty specimen.” There was, abruptly, a hot ring in his tones. Cotterill cried: “That’ll do! You’re through. No man can talk to me that way....” Hosmer’s long arm shot out; his fingers twisted into the other’s collar. “Talk to you? Talk to you?” he repeated quietly. “Why, Jim, I aim to do considerable more than talk to you.” His right hand swung; he slapped the squirming man across the cheek. Swung and cuffed Jim Cotterill to and fro in a cold fire of rage.... Urged him toward the door; half dragged, half thrust, half threw him down the stairs; spurred his tumultuous exit from the house. A last stinging blow, and: “Git,” he said. Cotterill was gone. III