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“How is it there now?” I asked.

He screwed up his face. “Simply frightful!” he said. “Thea is at Droitwich.”

“I should like it immensely, but I must cultivate Baxter for the present. You’ll be sure and keep him busy your end, won’t you?”

He looked at me with quiet contempt. “Do not be afraid. I shall be a good Jew. I shall be my own solicitor.”

Before a fortnight was over, Baxter admitted ruefully that M’Leod was better than most firms in the business: We buyers were coy, argumentative, shocked at the price of Holmescroft, inquisitive, and cold by turns, but Mr. M’Leod the seller easily met and surpassed us; and Mr. Baxter entered every letter, telegram, and consultation at the proper rates in a cinematograph-film of a bill. At the end of a month he said it looked as though M’Leod, thanks to him, were really going to listen to reason. I was many pounds out of pocket, but I had learned something of Mr. Baxter on the human side. I deserved it. Never in my life have I worked to conciliate, amuse, and flatter a human being as I worked over my solicitor.

It appeared that he golfed. Therefore, I was an enthusiastic beginner, anxious to learn. Twice I invaded his office with a bag (M’Leod lent it) full of the spelicans needed in this detestable game, and a vocabulary to match. The third time the ice broke, and Mr. Baxter took me to his links, quite ten miles off, where in a maze of tramway lines, railroads, and nursery-maids, we skelped our divotted way round nine holes like barges plunging through head seas. He played vilely and had never expected to meet any one worse; but as he realised my form, I think he began to like me, for he took me in hand by the two hours together. After a fortnight he could give me no more than a stroke a hole, and when, with this allowance, I once managed to beat him by one, he was honestly glad, and assured me that I should be a golfer if I stuck to it. I was sticking to it for my own ends, but now and again my conscience pricked me; for the man was a nice man. Between games he supplied me with odd pieces of evidence, such as that he had known the Moultries all his life, being their cousin, and that Miss Mary, the eldest, was an unforgiving woman who would never let bygones be. I naturally wondered what she might have against him; and somehow connected him unfavourably with mad Agnes.

“People ought to forgive and forget,” he volunteered one day between rounds. “Specially where, in the nature of things, they can’t be sure of their deductions. Don’t you think so?”

“It all depends on the nature of the evidence on which one forms one’s judgment,” I answered.

“Nonsense!” he cried. “I’m lawyer enough to know that there’s nothing in the world so misleading as circumstantial evidence. Never was.”

“Why? Have you ever seen men hanged on it?”

“Hanged? People have been supposed to be eternally lost on it,” his face turned grey again. “I don’t know how it is with you, but my consolation is that God must know. He must! Things that seem on the face of ’em like murder, or say suicide, may appear different to God. Heh?”

“That’s what the murderer and the suicide can always hope–I suppose.”

“I have expressed myself clumsily as usual. The facts as God knows ’em–may be different–even after the most clinching evidence. I’ve always said that–both as a lawyer and a man, but some people won’t–I don’t want to judge ’em–we’ll say they can’t–believe it; whereas I say there’s always a working chance–a certainty–that the worst hasn’t happened.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Now, let’s come on! This time next week I shall be taking my holiday.”

“What links?” I asked carelessly, while twins in a perambulator got out of our line of fire.