Judge Hollis was not without curiosity, but he restrained it manfully. He even took his paper-cutter and folded the paper before him in little plaits. “Zeb,” he said, “it’s a rotten business, but the girl’s dead and Caleb Trench has taken the child and--” “It’s him, curse him, it’s him!” Zeb cried, shaking his fist. Judge Hollis dropped the paper-cutter and rose from his chair, his great figure, in the long dark blue coat, towering. “How dare you say that?” he demanded, “you cur--you skunk!” But Zeb was ugly; he set his teeth, and his crazy eyes flashed. “I tell you it’s him,” he cried; “ain’t I said she tole me?” “Damn you, I don’t believe you,” the judge shouted; “it’s money you want, money!” He grabbed the shaking boy by the nape of the neck, as a dog takes a rat, and shook him. “You clear out,” he raged, “and you keep your damned lying, dirty tongue still!” and flung him out and locked the door. Then, panting slightly, he went back to his seat, swung it to his desk again, rolled back his cuffs and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Then he pulled his pen out of the ink-well and shook the surplus ink over the floor and began to write; he wrote two pages and dropped his pen. His head sank, his big shoulders bowed over, he was lost in thought. He thought there for an hour, while nothing stirred except the mouse that was gnawing his old law-books and had persistently evaded Miss Sarah’s vigilance. Then the judge brought his great fist down on his desk, and the ink-well danced, and the pen rolled off. “My God!” he exclaimed to himself, “I’ve loved him like a son, the girl was treated like hell--it can’t be true!” He rose, jammed his hat down on his head and walked out; he walked the streets for hours. It was very late when he was admitted to the old jail. It was past time to admit visitors, but the judge was a privileged person. The warden gave up his private room to him and sent for the prisoner. The lamp burnt low on the desk, and the old judge sat before it, heavy with thought. He looked up mechanically when Caleb came in with his quick firm step and faced him. The two greeted each other without words, and Caleb sat down, waiting. He knew his visitor had something on his mind. Judge Hollis looked at him, studying him, studying the clear-cut lines, the hollowed cheeks, the clear gray eyes, the chiseled lips,--not a handsome face, but one of power. The sordid wretchedness of the story, like a foul weed springing up to choke a useful plant, struck him again with force and disgust. “I’ve just seen Zeb Bartlett,” he said; “he’s raving to punish the man who wronged his sister. He says you did it!” The old man glared fiercely at the young one. Caleb’s expression was slightly weary, distinctly disappointed: he had hoped for something of importance. The story of Jean Bartlett was utterly unimportant in his life. “I know it,” he said briefly; “it is easy to accuse, more difficult to prove the truth.”