d of a lawyer," Hilary continued, apparently more to
himself than to his companion. "You pay me for that sort of thing more
than for the work I do in the courts. Isn't that so, Flint?"

Mr. Flint was baffled. Two qualities which were very dear to him he
designated as sane and safe, and he had hitherto regarded his counsel
as the sanest and safest of men. This remark made him wonder seriously
whether the lawyer's mind were not giving away; and if so, to whom was
he to turn at this eleventh hour? No man in the State knew the ins and
outs of conventions as did Hilary Vane; and, in the rare times when
there had been crises, he had sat quietly in the little room off the
platform as at the keyboard of an organ, and the delegates had responded
to his touch. Hilary Vane had named the presidents of conventions, and
the committees, and by pulling out stops could get such resolutions as
he wished--or as Mr. Flint wished. But now?

Suddenly a suspicion invaded Mr. Flint's train of thought; he repeated
Hilary's words over to himself. "I'm that kind of a lawyer," and another
individuality arose before the president of the Northeastern. Instincts
are curious things. On the day, some years before, when Austen Vane had
brought his pass into this very room and laid it down on his desk, Mr.
Flint had recognized a man with whom he would have to deal,--a stronger
man than Hilary. Since then he had seen Austen's hand in various
disturbing matters, and now it was as if he heard Austen speaking.
"I'm that kind of a lawyer." Not Hilary Vane, but Hilary Vane's son was
responsible for Hilary Vane's condition--this recognition came to Mr.
Flint in a flash. Austen had somehow accomplished the incredible feat
of making Hilary Vane ashamed--and when such men as Hilary are ashamed,
their usefulness is over. Mr. Flint had seen the thing happen with a
certain kind of financiers, one day aggressive, combative, and the next
broken, querulous men. Let a man cease to believe in what he is doing,
and he loses force.

The president of the Northeastern used a locomotive as long as possible,
but when it ceased to be able to haul a train up-grade, he sent it
to the scrap-heap. Mr. Flint was far from being a bad man, but he
worshipped power, and his motto was the survival of the fittest. He did
not yet feel pity for Hilary--for he was angry. Only contempt,--contempt
that one who had been a power should come to this. To draw a somewhat
far-fetched parallel, a Ca