answered Austen, gravely.

"I thought I'd let you know I didn't take any too much trouble with
Meader last summer to get the old bird to accept a compromise."

"That was good of you, Ham."

"I knew what you was up to," said Mr. Tooting, giving Austen a friendly
poke with his cigar.

"You showed your usual acumen, Mr. Tooting," said Austen, as he rose to
put on his coat. Mr. Tooting regarded him uneasily.

"You're a deep one, Aust," he declared; "some day you and, me must get
together."

Mr. Billings' desire for ultimate justice not being any stronger than
Austen suspected, in due time Mr. Meader got his money. His counsel would
have none of it,--a decision not at all practical, and on the whole
disappointing. There was, to be sure, an influx into Austen's office of
people who had been run over in the past, and it was Austen's unhappy
duty to point out to these that they had signed (at the request of
various Mr. Tootings) little slips of paper which are technically known
as releases. But the first hint of a really material advantage to be
derived from his case against the railroad came from a wholly unexpected
source, in the shape of a letter in the mail one August morning.

"DEAR SIR: Having remarked with some interest the verdict for a
client of yours against the United Northeastern Railroads, I wish
you would call and see me at your earliest convenience.

"Yours truly,

"HUMPHREY CREWE."

Although his curiosity was aroused, Austen was of two minds whether to
answer this summons, the truth being that Mr. Crewe had not made, on the
occasions on which they had had intercourse, the most favourable of
impressions. However, it is not for the struggling lawyer to scorn any
honourable brief, especially from a gentleman of stocks and bonds and
varied interests like Mr. Crewe, with whom contentions of magnitude are
inevitably associated. As he spun along behind Pepper on the Leith road
that climbed Willow Brook on the afternoon he had made the appointment,
Austen smiled to himself over his anticipations, and yet---being
human-let his fancy play.

The broad acres of Wedderburn stretched across many highways, but the
manor-house (as it had been called) stood on an eminence whence one could
look for miles down the Yale of the Blue. It had once been a farmhouse,
but gradually the tail had begun to wag the dog, and the farmhouse
became, like the original stone out of which the Irishman made the soup,
di