Hoyle’s past was shrouded in a mystery from which he never drew aside the veil. Tradition had it that he was the son of a Salem clergyman—a graduate of Harvard, who through personal experiences incident to early dissipation, had discovered the ease with which a shrewd member of the bar could profit by the misfortunes of his fellow men. No one knew where he lived, and he was rarely seen outside the four walls of his office. At rare intervals he emerged, brief-case in hand, in a blue cape and silk stovepipe hat, on his way to argue an appeal in the Appellate Division or in the Court of Appeals at Albany; on rarer occasions his door opened to admit some agitated applicant for legal succor, with whom he would be closeted for a long period of time, after which it might happen that a smell of burning paper, suggestive of brimstone, would follow the exit of his visitor along the passage to the outer office. Indeed the high brazier on its iron tripod in the corner, with the possible exception of the engraving of Lord Eldon between the windows, was the most conspicuous object in his office. He was a man of silence, who slipped out and in without so much as a good morning or a good night to his employees; but, if forced to stop and speak, his face was so boyish, his eyes so guileless, as to create an uncanny feeling that there was something wrong there—either that he had sold his soul to Satan in exchange for the secret of perpetual youth, or that in fact he was a child masquerading as a man.
So far as could be observed Hoyle never spoke to O’Hara, and neither did O’Hara speak to Hoyle, although he always referred to him with a veneration verging, particularly when he had been drinking, upon awe. The two must have communicated—like cats on a fence, perhaps—yet how or when, none knew, nor what hold the older man had upon his junior partner. For the face of O’Hara, for all that he was burly as a prize-fighter, was cruelly lined with passion, drink, and anxiety, and his eyes were the sad eyes of one who once had ideals that he has lost. His was the body of an athlete with the head of a world-weary debauchee; Hoyle’s the decrepit figure of an octogenarian with the rosy cheeks and bland gaze of a precocious infant.
O’Hara was as rough in his exterior as his senior was smooth, and at first, with his purple unshaven cheeks and stubble-covered chin, gave an impression of general disreputability which persisted until he had once begun to speak, when it was immediately dispelled by the mellow, organ-like quality of his voice. No more was known of his private history than was of Hoyle’s, although he was reported to have once had a wife, but, whether widowed or divorced, he had her no longer, and he never referred to her.
The third member of this strange triumvirate, who although not a member of the bar, formed an integral part of it, was Jeffrey Quirk, over whom as over his partner O’Hara, the silent Hoyle seemed to exercise some occult control. In the latter’s presence Quirk cowered like a dog, shrinking from him as if in terror of the lash, or appealing with mute eyes to O’Hara for protection. Indeed, Quirk always seemed to Hugh more like an animal endowed with a limited rationality than a man—a mentally enfeebled and unmoral creature, who had shattered his nervous system by the use of drugs, yet who nevertheless retained an instinctive perception for beauty and a curious mysticism strangely at variance with his occupation and surroundings—in appearance a sort of living dead man, endowed with automatic motion, whose soul still hovered within reach and at times returned to it, but who at others could be utilized by a stronger mind as its tool for either good or evil. He was, in a way, the firm’s familiar spirit, flitting here and there in the gloomy purlieus of the Tombs like a bat at their behest, mysteriously appearing after unexpected absences, always on hand in every court-room, apparently at one and the same time, to answer “Ready!” or to plead a prisoner guilty. His build and air, like his master Hoyle’s, were boyish, but his yellow skin was furrowed with wrinkles and scarred by smallpox.
Unsuspicious by nature, since there had been nothing in his early life to make him otherwise, Hugh neither saw nor felt anything sinister, or even unusual, in this peculiar trio. It did not occur to him to question any of the statements of his associates, or to dream that either of them could possibly be guilty of lying to him. Exteriorly they were not particularly different from some of the lawyers he had known at home. Old Mr. Safford was almost as bald as Mr. Hoyle. O’Hara was just like any other roughneck attorney. Quirk aroused his pity and instinct for protection. He knew no “Wall Street lawyers,” as civil attorneys are ordinarily referred to among the members of the criminal bar, and he had no opportunity to meet any, since they never condescended to appear in a criminal court, knowing full well in all probability that they would make asses of themselves if they did so. Hence Hugh had no standard of comparison except those set by the members of the professional staff of the district attorney—men such as Michael Redmond, for example, whom he disliked and distrusted. It was enough for Hugh that he was employed by Hoyle & O’Hara to make him fiercely a partisan both of the firm and of those whom it represented.
Hoyle & O’Hara’s offices were already crowded with waiting clients when they arrived, but since Hugh was the “trial” member of the firm, O’Hara made a practice of conferring with most of those who merely sought advice, thus leaving his young associate free to prepare for his more active duties in court.
Hugh looked over his correspondence, and studied his calendar. There were five “pleas” on it—that is to say, the firm had five clients who would be arraigned at the bar for the purpose of being interrogated as to their guilt or innocence. Practically nobody ever pleaded “guilty” in the first instance. Even those caught red-handed always claimed that they were “not guilty” in the expectation that rather than try their cases the district attorney would accept a plea of guilty to some lesser offense or, at any rate, to a lower degree of the same crime.
All a lawyer did was to take his stand beside his client when the latter was brought to the bar, and say “not guilty” when the clerk asked what plea the prisoner “desired to enter”; after which the defendant was taken back to his cell, to remain until somebody remembered that he was there, or the “D. A.” and his lawyer got tired of haggling over the disposition of his body. There were well-known cases where men, who if they had gone to trial would have been either acquitted or sentenced to but a nominal imprisonment, had lain for months in the Tombs while their lawyers negotiated for a plea.
It angered Hugh that the liberty of human beings should be dealt with as a matter of business or politics. He often told himself that he could never be a prosecutor, earning his salary by convicting men and sending them to prison or to the electric chair. How rotten it must have made Redmond feel, for instance, to find himself in the position of prosecuting poor Renig! This at once brought Moira to his mind. When would he see her again, he wondered. Had she really taken a fancy to him? Or was she merely gratifying a momentary whim, indulging herself in the cruel amusement of playing with him to find out what that kind of young man would do? Was she just another Roman princess who slew her lovers? What could a girl of her wealth and social position see in a shabby police court lawyer like himself? Yet he could not think of her without a thrill even then. The fiery quality of her beauty was tempered by the tenderness of her eyes. Sun and sky! Lilt of west wind, murmur of pine tops, chuckle of shallows and gurgle of rapids! Where was he drifting? Hoyle & O’Hara!
“Lady to see you!”
The office boy had said it just in the same metre. The words repeated themselves in Hugh’s ears:
“Lady to see you!
Lilt of the West Wind!
Sunshine and starlight!
Where am I drifting?
Show in the lady!”
“Show in the lady.”
“Yes, sir!” answered the boy, staring at him as if he were quite mad, as he was.
He did not need to ask her name. No “lady,” so far as he was aware, had ever called at the office of Hoyle & O’Hara before—certainly not while he had been connected with it.
“It’s getting to be a sort of joke, isn’t it!” she said, holding