CHAPTER I

_The Clue Club Debates Murder_

The chairman of the Clue Club called for silence.

The repeated tap of his wand of office on the polished table stilled the tongues of the members and caused every eye to be focused on the heavy figure who presided.

It was not a large club, barely twenty names being on the subscription list; but it was a very exclusive one. This, their monthly meeting, had fallen on Christmas Eve and the proceedings were entirely formal. The dinner had been consumed and the dishes cleared off; only a few details had to be carried through, and the remainder of the evening was to be spent in seasonable cheerfulness.

Snow was falling in a thin whiffling way on the streets outside. The ground was hard with frost.

All was cozy indoors. A big fire crackled in the grate. A shaded cluster of electric globes hanging from the center of the ceiling and suspended above the long table thrust a wide circle of brilliant light toward the floor. Beyond this radius the room was in pleasant twilight.

Apart from the members very few people were aware that such a club existed. It had been born of the subtle fascination crime has always had for human beings but has only recently been frankly admitted.

Wherever men live to govern, or be governed, they have formed clubs. But in a clubland that has become bewildering the Clue Club maintained an originality that was remarkable because of its simplicity. To become a member one had to affect an interest in crime and clues.

Such singleness of qualification and purpose was something of an ironical gesture toward the political clubs where politics were rarely mentioned, the professional clubs where there were no professions, the social clubs where everyone was unsociable, the sectarian and non-sectarian clubs where sect treason and dogmatic cliques, respectively, reigned.

The members of the Clue Club were convinced that their directness of objective--for all original ideas are copied--was responsible for the Club of Honest Men in Chicago, the Truth-in-Advertising slogan, the British Premier's inspired belief--after he had read the speeches of his Cabinet members--in the many-sidedness of sincerity, the international plan to outlaw war, and the simplicity of Einstein's theory of relativity.

The members of the Clue Club were definitely interested in clues and crime. Their interest might be legal, pathological, sociological, professional, even casual, but it existed in every case. Yet, strangely enough, no official or other detective was a member. No murderer, no convict, ever told his experiences of prison or voiced his estimate of the law. The object of the club was simply to talk about crime--which, of course, involved talk about criminals--to analyze it, to classify its manifestations, to examine clues revealed by prosecutions, to suggest clues (within the privacy of the club premises) in cases where no clues existed, and to explain, if possible, the origin and phenomena of crime in the abstract and in the particular.

The members were chiefly professional men--that is, outside the criminal profession--from both sides of the Atlantic who could compare crime as America and England knew it. This comparison, let it be admitted, revealed a striking similarity in the objects of criminals; but it also revealed an adroitness and, in many cases, a resurprise, on the part of the American criminal which his English brother lacked. Yet this was proved, after analysis, to be no real cause for congratulation of one another by American evildoers, for the majority of their most brilliant criminals were British born, and Britain was willing to erase their names from her census, while Ellis Island had not woven a net fine enough to prevent their penetration into the United States. The members of the Clue Club, therefore, with sound common sense, came to the conclusion that crime was international in its nature, though it might acquire characteristics from its environment. This conclusion was a sort of compromise that avoided rivalries for notoriety.

It has been said that the club membership was mainly composed of professional men. There were lawyers, actors, artists, doctors, surgeons, psychologists, politicians, novelists. There was one clergyman. Each looked at crime from his own viewpoint. They went to criminal trials of national and international interest; they haunted the courts during the hearing of murder cases. All were, humanly enough, profoundly stirred by, and more interested in, murder than any other form of crime. Then, while the cases were "on," and after they were finished and the verdicts announced, the members gathered at the club, where the lawyers discussed the opposing counsel's arguments, the actors considered the facial and bodily agonies of the accused that they might copy them on the stage, the artists showed sketches they had made (by stealth when permission was refused to sketch openly), the doctors and surgeons talked of medico-chirurgical aspects, the psychologists pretended to explain mental reactions, the politicians insisted on the government's duty to the public, the novelists sought for plots. The clergyman quoted Scripture.

Only two men in the club maintained attitudes of detachment from the general considerations and conclusions. These two were the chairman who presided at the gatherings and the waiter who filled the glasses of the members.

The chairman's reluctance to participate in the discussions was respected, being recognized as based on two good reasons. Firstly, he was a Criminal Court judge, one who wore the scarlet robe--emblem of blood!--and impartially sent men (and women, too) to the scaffold or to prison, according to the law and the findings of juries. Being a judge of eminence, it would have been too much to hope that he should descend to ordinary discussions around a table. Secondly, being an authority on law, he made an ideal president. His heavy, judicial manner was just what was expected of him. His massive face, much longer than it was broad, was made up of features that spoke the legal mind in every particular. From chin to brow there were furrows and lines caused by straining to catch counsel's pleadings in his court; so that speakers never were sure whether he was smiling to them or at them, or whether he was encouraging them or luring them on in order, at a given moment, to crush them with a word. Prisoners had been misled, counsel had been snubbed, juries had been bewildered by misinterpreting this expression which was an excellent mask. The Clue Club regarded him as their greatest asset.

As for the waiter, no one expected him to be other than a waiter. But here there was a touch which no member could personally supply. The waiter had had a taste of prison. His presence was an ever-present reminder of the object of the organization.

On this evening, however, the ex-prisoner was not present. He had found himself suddenly indisposed and a substitute had come who appeared to be quite as able and as willing to carry out the duties of servant.

"Gentlemen," said the president, gravely, "it is time we opened the proceedings."

As he spoke he laid aside the curious, knobbed stick with which he had called for silence.

The new waiter moved silently out of the shadow behind the presidential chair and lifted the stick, bearing it to the sideboard at the head of the room, where he laid it down on two tiny trestles. This was part of the usual custom, a detail of the ceremony that took place at every meeting.

It was a strange stick, black with age and hard as iron. It was in reality a bludgeon, a murderous weapon in the hands of a man who could use it. But few cared to handle it, for it seemed to exude an atmosphere of crime. It had been dug up out of the mud of the Thames during excavations, a relic of a past race when men were fierce and savage. No modern man's hand could grip it as it had been gripped by its original owner, who had burned grooves into the handle for his fingers. Only a primitive hand was competent to wield that weapon, which doubtless had sent many to death. It was said by those who had taken the trouble to make research that it had belonged to Kartarus, the human wolf who came with the Frank and Saxon barbarians on plundering expeditions to England in the distant past. His sign was on the gnarled, heavy head of the bludgeon.

The president of the Clue Club had bought it from a dealer in ancient things and had given it to the club as a contribution, an addition to the relics the organization already possessed. These relics were various and worthy of remark. On the walls of the room in which the members were seated were a few old swords, a pike, and a scythe, all of which had been used by the mob during the French Revolution. There was a coat belonging to the late Tsar of Russia, one of the coats he had worn before he was done to death with his family. There was a rosary believed to have belonged to Rasputin. A slugshot had been presented by a member who came from Chicago. On a stand on the mantelpiece was a small model of the electric chair used to terminate prisoners' lives in Sing Sing prison. It had come from a New York member. Beside it was a model of a scaffold in an English prison. It had been given by a man who had narrowly escaped hanging, owing to the cleverness of his counsel, a member of the club.

Having laid the black bludgeon of Kartarus on its small oak trestles, the waiter lifted a decanter and proceeded to fill up the glasses of the members, beginning, as was the rule, with those at the bottom of the table and ending with the glass of the president. Into each glass the waiter poured, with a steady hand, a thin, even stream of whiskey. He placed siphons here and there and put down glass jugs of water for those who preferred it that way. Then he stepped back into the shadow, having carried out the duties as if he had been the regular waiter and not a deputy.

For a moment there was not a sound in the apartment, but when the president raised his glass every member followed his example. The glasses were put down again, all of them now being half empty. The waiter glided down the table once more, recharging the glasses.

The secretary read the minutes of the previous meeting. These minutes contained a unanimous resolution declaring for the retention of the judgment of death in the legal code as a necessary warning to evildoers and a fitting punishment for criminal killers. This was the Clue Club's reply to those who sought to abolish executions.

"It was decided," droned the secretary, still reading the minutes, "that a copy of the resolution be sent to the proper authorities to strengthen their hands."

The secretary sat down.

The chairman took a sip from his glass, an example that was followed by every member. The chairman spoke:

"Those in favor of the minutes as read say 'Aye'----"

"Pardon me!"

A new voice had struck into the gathering. Every member turned in the direction of the voice. It came from the new waiter, who was standing near the chairman.

"Before you pass these minutes and that resolution, gentlemen, I should like to be allowed to make a proposal."

The interruption of the club's proceedings was unprecedented, and for a moment several members wondered if the new waiter had taken leave of his senses. But the new waiter was quite calm and gave no indication of being otherwise than perfectly sane. One or two members smiled patronizingly and the chairman assumed his court attitude.

"What contribution could you make?" he asked, his massive face wrinkling up curiously.

"I have a proposal to suggest."

Again there was a short silence, during which the members stared. The judge's half-closed eyes were resting on the waiter. Every member expected the man to be annihilated by a phrase from the chairman.

"You have, of course, no _locus standi_ so far as the discussions of this club are concerned," went on the judge, and his voice contained that purring sound that always heralded his most severe moments. "On the other hand, it cannot be said of the minutes that _literia scripta manet_. Do you wish to make a plea _in forma pauperis_?"

The waiter bowed.

"I wish to put forward a proposal as _nomo sui juris_. I plead no _lex scripta_. If you will hear my proposition, it may amuse you and the members of the club. Believe me, I have an authority I can quote in support of my seeming audacity."

The judge's features wrinkled more than ever. There was no doubt that he was smiling now. He recognized a legal mind when he saw one.

"Let us hear your proposition," he said, as the members somewhat reluctantly signified their agreement. "Proceed as if we had issued a _writ mandamus_, but blame yourself if you find the plea is _solvuntur risu tabulæ_."

A ripple of amusement ran round the table. It looked like a case of a mouse sparring with a lion. The waiter remained impassive until everybody had settled himself.

"My proposition," he began, "is quite a simple one. It is just this: you are all interested in crime and you have drafted a resolution declaring for the legal murder----"

"The legal punishment!" cried a lawyer, quickly.

"Put it that way if you like. You have declared for capital punishment being retained in the legal code. I have had unique opportunities of knowing the working of the law and the working of the minds of those you call criminals. Does it not seem to you that wherever a law imposes the extreme penalty it really condones murder? What is the first thing expected of a person accused of murder? Is it not that he or she should plead 'not guilty'? If he or she declined to plead 'not guilty' the machinery of the law would be nonplused until a plea was formulated--a plea that would be a ground for argument by lawyers. And what does this demand for a plea at all mean? It means nothing more or less than that the law believes in the right to kill, but wants to argue about it. The arena is one in which law and not justice is discussed, and the victory goes to the sharpest wits. Assuming, then, that I am right in saying that the law declares its right to kill--and all penal systems had their origin in the idea of vengeance--cannot it logically be claimed that a state claims this right because a state is stronger than any individual? And if a state has the right to kill, why deny that right to an individual, who may be more concerned in the circumstances than the state?"

The president raised his head quickly.

"You go too fast," he said. "Society took upon itself the right to be judge and executioner in private cases because life would become impossible otherwise."

"Ah," said the waiter, equally quickly, "then you have admitted the instinct of retaliation to be just. But there have been cases where the state has held views that were wrong and unethical. In these cases opposition to these views is permissible and right. I can quote instances. Take the case of the Passive Resisters of Wales, led by their clergy. Was it not through the pig-headedness of England, and her unjust claims, that she lost the whole of the United States? Other instances abound. They prove that resistance to absurd laws is justified. I am going to propose something on these lines now."

He paused and gazed round at the members, some of whom were reclining listlessly in their chairs rather resenting the intrusion; others were sitting, elbows on the table, listening to every word.

"I am going to propose," said the waiter, "that you, my lord, having during your tenure on the bench sent not a few men to the scaffold, shall be tried for administering an unjust law----"

"I am but the mouthpiece of society. It is the jury that brings in the verdict!" cried the judge, sitting up quickly in his chair.

"But you have been capable of influencing a jury while you explained the law. It is in your power to direct a jury----"

"It is a monstrous idea!" cried a lawyer seated down the table. "You forget yourself, waiter!"

"I do not forget myself. I do not propose an absurdity. I wish to prove to you that capital punishment is a savage relic retained by legislatures that are either vicious or are selfishly indolent or worse----"

"That is not true," interrupted one of the politicians. "The penal codes of England and America are the mildest on earth and have been formulated by sympathetic men----"

"It is curious," said the waiter, quietly, "that you should use the very words of Judge Fielding, who put up the same defense to the grand jury of Middlesex at a time when people were burned for coining and had their ears nailed to the pillory for minor offenses. I'll tell you why the judgment of death has never been abolished by governments. It is because there is no party capital in the question. The suggestion to wipe out judgment of death has been before the British legislature in the years 1868, 1872, 1877, 1881, and 1886, but each time it has been defeated. The argument has always been that to abolish it would mean that murders would increase. Yet it has been proved that death is no deterrent and the abolition of death no incentive. Let me give you a few facts on this score."

He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.

"The death penalty has been abolished in Holland since 1870; in Switzerland since 1874; in Rumania since 1864. It has been either abolished or abrogated in Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Portugal, Austria, Belgium, and in Italy except for certain reservations. There are eight states in America where it is not admitted; in thirty-three states a life sentence in prison is the alternative. And in the remaining states where death is the penalty of murder there are more murders committed than in the others."

"Let us keep to England," said a lawyer. "We have only four crimes that are punishable with death."

"I am aware of that," replied the waiter. "The four are: first, murder; second, treason; third, setting fire to His Majesty's dockyards; and fourth, piracy with violence. In Scotland the throwing of vitriol can still be a capital crime. But it is not so long ago that there were over two hundred acts for which death was the penalty. Among these, barely a hundred years ago, was the uprooting of a shrub in a public park; being in the company of gypsies; impersonating a pensioner of Greenwich; being seen in a mask in a public highway; damaging a rabbit warren. It was the squirearchy that made these laws and inflicted the punishment. Are you aware that in 1810 the Chief Justice of England opposed the abolition of the death penalty for stealing a few shillings' worth of goods from a shop? Are you aware that the then Archbishop of Canterbury and half a dozen prelates sided with the Chief Justice? In May, 1833, a boy of nine years of age was sentenced to death by Justice Bosanquet and was hanged for breaking into a house and stealing twopenny worth of goods. In the year 1840 a boy who, either in a fit of insanity or in a passion for notoriety, fired a tiny pistol in the direction of Queen Victoria was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.

"You ask me to keep to England. Listen while I keep to it. Have you ever heard of the judgment of _peine forte et dure_? Prisoners were taken to a dungeon, laid on their backs, stripped save for a loin cloth, and set upon their bodies was a weight of iron just greater than they could bear. They were given three morsels of coarse bread on the first day, three draughts of stagnant water from the pool nearest the prison door on the second day, and so on alternately from day to day until they died. The sentence of traitors was that they should be disemboweled. The bishops were witch-burners, the common clergy took bribes to get prisoners free. It was Bonner, Bishop of London, Chaplain to the King, who pressed a charge of heresy against a boy of fifteen years and had him burned at Smithfield. During the reign of one king--Henry Eighth--no fewer than seventy thousand men, women, and children went to the scaffold. In every village there were whipping-posts and stocks. In 1801 a boy of twelve was hanged for the theft of a spoon."

The waiter stopped talking for a moment, for the judge's hand was raised as if the latter desired to speak. But his lordship did not open his lips, though his gaze was fastened on the waiter's features in a strained way.

"It was not until the year 1837 that a prisoner could have a lawyer to speak for him. It was not until 1870 that the atrocity of being hanged, drawn, and quartered was withdrawn in the case of a convicted traitor. It was not until 1898 that any accused person was permitted to give evidence on his or her own behalf----"

"If you intend to charge us with all the faults and disorders of previous administrations," sneered the judge, "we can plead the statute of limitations with equanimity."

"You have enough to answer for, believe me, without my charging you with all I have mentioned. I have but adopted an old legal method of outlining the case by presenting the growth from which the charge emerges. What was the reason for all those outrages by the state? It was the assumption, still held, that the state had the sole right of punishment. Did the rack or the boot have the effect of making men penitent? Did drowning stop belief in spirits and ghosts? Did the Spanish Inquisition make men righteous? If execution is a deterrent, why does not murder cease? If the penal code is a reformative agency, why are not all prisoners reformed?"

The judge shrugged his shoulders and cast a glance round the table. To his astonishment he saw that most of the club members were no longer taking any interest in the argument. Could they be falling asleep? Heads had fallen aslant shoulders, a few hands were propped under cheeks for support. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him. He was used to receiving the utmost respect. In his own court he would have dealt severely with such contempt.

The secretary, his bundle of papers and minute-book before him, was still awake, but even he was showing signs of weariness and lassitude.

The judge turned to the waiter anxiously.

"Shall not we postpone this matter----?"

"With due respect, I think not."

"But my ruling is that it is absurd and _ultra vires_----"

"On the contrary, it is quite in order."

The judge was now becoming thoroughly alarmed. There was something unnatural in the positions that the men about him were taking. There could be no jury if the members were asleep. He looked again at the waiter.

"The thought of a mock trial is preposterous and much that you have said is _ex post facto_ and inadmissible."

"I assure you, this is not a mock trial."

The words, as well as the tone in which they were uttered, caused the judge to stiffen.

"Explain yourself," he exclaimed with dignity.

"It will not take me long to do so. Practically all your club members are now unconcerned with our talk. In a few moments only you and I will be left for the discussion. Look, your secretary is about to make his exit like the others."

It was true. The secretary was just then in the act of laying his head on the table, as if overcome with slumber.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the judge sternly, rising quickly to his feet. "Let me look at you!" he cried. "Have I seen you previously?"

"You have."

"Where?"

"Sit down! Sit down! I shall tell you before we part. In the meantime let me say that it was I who put something in the glasses of these members so that they would not disturb us----"

"You have poisoned them!" cried the judge, aghast, as he subsided in his chair; and in his excitement he began to call some of the members by name.

There was no response to his shouting. All that was heard was their heavy breathing; some, indeed, had ceased, apparently, to breathe at all. They lay limp and lifeless in their chairs, or sprawled on the table beside the glasses.

"You have poisoned them!" cried the judge for the second time.

The waiter shrugged his shoulders and took a flask from his pocket and laid it on the table.

"In this flask," he said, calmly, "is an antidote to what I have given your members in their whiskey. I came here this evening for the purpose. I persuaded your waiter to let me have his post for one evening so that I could carry out my intention----"

"You wretch! Was our waiter an accessory before the fact?"

"Never mind your waiter. I am here----"

"He compounded a felony!"

"Ah, always legal! We will discuss the meaning of the term felony later on if you care----"

"Who are you?" cried the judge, rising again from his chair in agitation.

"Sit down!"

It was more than an order. It was a threat. The judge obeyed.

"Do not fear that I have poisoned your drink," went on the waiter in a kinder strain. "I am anxious that you shall have a fair trial."

"Trial!"

"Your club members are not dead."

"Not dead?"

"You shall have a chance to restore them to life."

The president of the Clue Club, who had almost given himself up for lost and was about to throw himself on the waiter, breathed heavily.

"Before you involve yourself deeper," he said with an effort to recover his dignity, "I wish to warn you that your actions----"

"Oh, I know what you are going to say. You are thinking of the first of six divisions into which your Home Office has classified crime--offenses against the person. Let it be. It reminds me of the confusion in which this department is stumbling on the very matter that brought me here."

"There will be no confusion in its estimate of your conduct," flashed the judge, grimly. He was now beginning to see that he was in no immediate danger and his judicial mentality was climbing back to its balance.

The waiter stepped toward the mantelpiece, from which he took two large candles set in old-fashioned holders. These he placed on the table while the judge watched him with a puzzled, but rather anxious, air. It seemed as if the president of the Clue Club was trying to recall some incident, some memory, that refused to stir from the depths of his profound legal mind. His concentration on this was such as to drive all thought of resistance from him. He stroked his cheek meditatively. He was no longer alarmed, merely uneasy. But when the waiter snapped out the electric lights he gave vent to an exclamation.

"What is the meaning of all this?"

"I will explain," replied the waiter, and his voice was now as sharp as a whip. "I have lit these candles, both of which will burn for twelve hours, because I do not wish outsiders, especially patrolling police, to think that the Clue Club is having an all-night sitting. The curtains will not show the light of the candles on the outside. It is Christmas Eve. Can you tell me of a better way of spending the occasion than by trying to prove to me the justice of judgment of death? Christmas Eve! The Mass of Christ!"

The judge leaped to his feet, and this time he would have made an attempt to overpower the waiter; but one thing prevented him. The waiter had taken from the sideboard the bludgeon of Kartarus and was holding it in readiness. The judge was thoroughly alarmed; but he was not frightened. Again he obeyed the order to be seated.

"A mad waiter!" he thought. Aloud, in an endeavor to humor the man, he said, "Lay down that weapon and let us argue about this."

"With all my heart; but I will retain the bludgeon. See, I will lay it here."

As he placed the black bludgeon on the table the judge could not but notice that it was within the waiter's reach and just beyond his own. The waiter sat down facing the judge. The latter summoned his most persuasive accents to his aid.

"But how can a trial take place when there are no counsel?"

"You yourself have a reputation for successful pleading. Are you not recognized as an authority? And prisoners have been known to plead on their own behalf."

"Of course, that is true. You are not unacquainted with procedure. Am I to be a prisoner, then?"

"It would seem so."

"What is the charge?"

"The charge is that you, being a human being and an administrator of the law, believe in and practice the sentence of judgment of death on your fellows."

The judge stroked his chin as he considered.

"What is the penalty incurred in such a belief and practice?"

"Can you logically be blind to that?" asked the waiter, coldly and in a penetrating voice.

"Oh! You would kill me!"

"Why not?"

A shiver, in spite of his self-command, passed through the judge. All his doubts as to the earnestness of the man, or the seriousness of the situation, vanished. He bent a keen, anxious look on the waiter. If the latter was mad he did not show it outwardly. Yet the position was outrageous; but it was inescapable.

"Supposing," said the judge, adroitly, but in a voice he hardly knew as his own, "I asked you what logical right you have to assume the authority of inflicting any penalty for a belief that is sanctioned by law, what would you say?"

"I would say that I am surprised you do not observe the situation in its true aspect. In this room the law you mention no longer has the supreme word. _Pro tempore_ you must consider the position reversed."

"But surely it is illogical for you, who oppose the judgment of death, to enunciate the very same penalty for believing in it?"

"Ah, you think you have made a point! Are you afraid of meeting the fate you have assigned to others? Is it not quite logical that similar retribution should fall on those who have upheld judgment of death? It is such a belief that is on trial, not the opposite one. Besides, while an established law is being overthrown there is justice in hoisting guilty parties with their own petard, so to speak. History is the best proof of this. But it has just occurred to me--were you about to plead that you bow to my theory because of a desire to save your life?"

"Well, if I did?"

"It would involve a solemn declaration that you would no longer uphold the law. That would have certain consequences. You would, of course, never go back on your word. It would mean considerable loss financially and otherwise--and I would see that your word was kept."

Again the tone warned the judge that this man was not to be trifled with.

"I see," said the judge.

"But do not think me unreasonable," went on the waiter. "The situation, as I apprehend it, is this: you uphold the theory of judgment of death. I oppose it. You are being tried for it. You have not yet been found guilty. It lies with you whether you will be. You complained just now of the absence of a jury. I shall give you the opportunity of having a jury."

"Go on," said the judge, stirring himself and brightening considerably.

"I have placed here a flask in which there is an antidote to the lethargy now overcoming your fellow members. For every case out of your own experience where you can prove the death penalty deserved you shall have the right to recall one member of this club back from unconsciousness. Is not that fair?"

"Ah," cried the judge, readily, "that is a reasonable factor." Then, his hopes rising rapidly, he continued: "I do not wish to retreat from my point of view. I have held office and have also my opinion as a private individual. Perhaps I may convert you. It will not be impossible to prove from the cases which have come before me--cases in which I have donned the emblem of death, the black cap--that the sentences were deserved. We may take these cases as typical."

"Very well. And for every case I show you that the sentence was unjust I shall claim a member. That is, a member shall remain unconscious."

The judge hesitated, and the waiter saw the reluctance to agree to the condition.

"Are you afraid of failure?" he demanded.

"Not at all, but----"

"Then accept my challenge!"

The judge's face wrinkled, as observers had so often seen it wrinkle in his court. The challenge was to his self-esteem as well as to his forensic ability, both of which were of a high order. He gazed at the unconscious members, then at the waiter. If only he had the aid of one of his friends he could bring this unheard-of situation to a satisfactory end. Had he been younger he would have tackled the man single-handed. If only one of the members was in full possession of his faculties!

"If I accept your challenge," he said at last and with a show of condescension, "I shall argue the issue as I apprehend it. We lawyers, you know, as the oath has it, do not admit any influence in our minds, under any conditions, of any emotional character--no passion, no affection----"

"What!" thundered the other. "Do you, then, eliminate emotion from the fatherhood of your children?"

Astounded at the vehemence of the shout, the judge shrank. His face blanched and it was some moments before the blood flowed back to his features.

"You misunderstand," he said. "I am a bachelor."

"In that case," retorted the waiter, but in a calmer tone, "you have a certain advantage over your learned brethren on the bench."

The judge was angry and ruffled at his own show of alarm. He was indignant, too.

"I accept your challenge," he announced, sharply. "There is no need, either, for me to rely entirely on my memory for the cases I shall quote. They are mentioned in the minute-book of this club.... A last point, however, arises. It is usual"--and his tone was gently sarcastic--"in all cases about to be tried. Under what statute do you make your charge?"

The reply came swiftly enough:

"Under the same authority as that on which you yourself rely--the _lex talionis_ injunction of Mosaic law which is laid down in the Book of Exodus, chapter twenty-one."

The judge stretched out his hand and opened the minute-book.