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 to cabinet secretaries; they had even found entrée to the White House, and there been listened to comprehendingly; but there was not one of all of these who could conduct the emissaries of Boland to a side entrance into the United States Supreme Court. There was, it appeared, no side entrance—a most appalling defect in architecture; quite as appalling as this error in the strategy of his life. How absurd, irritating, maddening—just to have to sit and do nothing, merely wait helplessly to see whether this heady-minded tribunal would happen upon the right point of view, instead of being able through trustworthy ambassadors and by well tried means, to make sure that it happened on it.

"It was a mistake ever to let it get up there," gloomed Scanlon. "We could better 'a' bought this fellow Hornblower off. I was always afraid of it."

"But you never told me you were!" reproached Boland, surprised.

"Who the devil ever wanted the job of telling you anything unpleasant till they had to?" retorted Scanlon.

"You lied to me," accused his chief.

"You like liars," defied Scanlon. "You're fond of 'em. There's never been but one fellow that told you the truth all the time—and he told it to you once too often! Look where you put him!"

Boland straightened up in silent rage; then rasped at Scanlon: "It was your scheme in the first place. You showed me the ambiguity in the treaty calls and old Wilkinson's mistake. You—you gave me your opinion that it was safe—safe to go ahead."

"And, damn it, it did figure to be safe," scowled