The luncheon hour came and went unheeded, and the autumn afternoon waned toward a cloudy evening, and still the judge plodded wearily back and forth in the narrow space between his writing table and the bookcases, striving with his paternal love as many a father has striven since the day when Abraham the Just was commanded to make trial of his faith. It was the father against the man, and what wonder if, after all the hours of stern conflict, the father won? “I can not do it,” he said at length, setting his face flintwise against all arguments. “A man’s first duty is to his own flesh and blood. If William were guilty it would be different; though even then I doubt if I could play the Roman. No, Brant must take his chance; I can’t help him.” So saying, the judge went up to dress for dinner; but his decision did not prevent him from telephoning to Antrim as he came down again, asking the chief clerk to come to the house that evening. Antrim promised readily enough, the more willingly since he suspected the reason for the summons and hoped to be able to do something in Brant’s behalf. Accordingly, he boarded a car immediately after supper and was presently set down in the Highlands. Isabel met him at the door and would gladly have been plastic; but Antrim was, in his way, a man of one idea at a time, and at that moment he was too full of concern for his friend to think overmuch of his own affair. Whereat Isabel was piqued, and the angel of reconciliation spread its wings and flew away. “Is your father at home?” Antrim asked, after what Isabel thought was the coldest of greetings. “Yes, my father is at home, and he is in the library,” she replied, with the accent precise. And when Antrim disappeared she went back to the drawing-room and played many unmusical staccato exercises on the piano. “Good evening, Harry,” said the judge, greeting his visitor cordially. “Come in and sit down; you have been neglecting us lately.” Antrim admitted it in one word, not wishing to go a-swimming in that pool. “I asked you to come over because I wanted to have a talk with you about Brant,” the judge went on. “You know him better than any of us, and I thought you might have some suggestions to offer. He mustn’t be allowed to hang himself without benefit of clergy.” “That is exactly what he is going to do,” replied Antrim, who had been to see the prisoner in the city jail during the afternoon. “He won’t talk about bail; and I can’t get him to listen to a word about having a lawyer.” “What does he say?” queried the judge. “As nearly nothing as a man can and keep on talking.” “Do you know anything about the affair yourself, Harry?--any more than the newspapers tell, I mean.” “How much do you know?” asked Antrim cautiously, not wishing to betray Dorothy. The judge smiled. “I know all that Dorothy can tell me,” he rejoined.