a
legal proceeding of some sort, and to concoct, with the aid of cunning
lawyers, an order unobjectionable on its face, but which would
compromise the reputation of any Judge who signed it? If the plot
miscarried, the conspirators could readily cover their tracks and make
good their escape.--It was a dangerous game but not a new one.

And if all this were so, what had he, Martin, to do with it?

Of course if Blagden was playing tricks he deserved to get caught and no
one but the hero-worshippers could be expected to cry.--But if he was
being tricked?--That was just the question to be decided. He, Martin,
was merely a spectator, interested in the event, it is true, but still
only an onlooker.--Was that true? Had not that role been forfeited when
he acquired special information? Was his attitude a perfectly passive
one? If any other man than Blagden was on the Bench would he not
instantly communicate what he had heard? Would he feel no disappointment
whatsoever if Blagden refused to sign the order? Frankly--was he not
waiting to see his enemy walk into what he believed was a trap?

Martin flushed at the silent self-accusation and instantly pronounced it
absurd. What could he do? Any man who goes on the Bench has to assume
grave responsibilities and take the risk with the honours. Blagden's
attitude had always been a silent boast of needing no help from anyone.
Would not interference give him an opportunity for retorting that "he
had the office and Martin the officiousness." How he would roll that
under his tongue!--No, Blagden could take care of himself. He would
never thank anyone for playing nurse for him.

The papers on the Judge's desk were piling higher and higher, and he
began to sign or reject them more rapidly as the time wore on. Martin
glanced at _The Guardian's_ order. It was still buried under a dozen
others.

Why did he think of it as "_The Guardian's_ order"? He had no proof of
the matter. But were not his suspicions strong enough to excuse a
warning? What did he fear? A snub? Well, that was better than "_the
laughter of the soul against itself when conscience has condemned it,
which the soul never hears once in its fulness without hearing it
forever after_."

How often he had repeated those lines to himself! What a hopeless,
haunting sound they had in them! He hated this man--but was he willing
to wear the _The Guardian's_ mask and hear forever after the hideous
laughter of the soul?

Martin glanc