Too, he found himself curiously at ease with Plank, as with one born to his own caste.

And this feeling, unconscious, but more and more apparent, meant more to Plank than anything that had ever happened to him.

It was a tonic in hours of doubt, a pleasure in his brief leisure, a pride never to be hinted at, never to be guessed, never to be dreamed of by any living soul save Plank alone.
Then, one sultry day toward the last week in August, a certain judge of a certain court, known among some as "Harrington's judge," sent secretly for Plank.

And Plank knew that the crisis was over.

But neither Harrington nor Quarrier dreamed of such a thing.
Fear sat heavy on that judge's soul--the godless, selfish fear that sends the first coward slinking from the councils of conspiracy to seek immunity from those slowly grinding millstones that grind exceeding fine.
Quarrier at Shotover, with his private car and his locomotive within an hour's drive, strolled with Sylvia on the eve of her departure for Lenox with Leila Mortimer; then, when their conference was ended, he returned to Agatha, calmly unconscious of impending events.
Harrington, at Seabright, paced his veranda, awaiting this same judge, annoyed as two boats came in without the expected guest.