So much there was intimidating in the matter, but nothing more. The Judge was a little bit gloomy for a day or two after, and more testy with every one than usual. He locked up the papers; and about a week after he asked his housekeeper, one day, in the library: “Had your husband never a brother?” Mrs. Carwell squalled on this sudden introduction of the funereal topic, and cried exemplary “piggins full,” as the Judge used pleasantly to say. But he was in no mood for trifling now, and he said sternly: “Come, madam! this wearies me. Do it another time; and give me an answer to my question.” So she did. Pyneweck had no brother living. He once had one; but he died in Jamaica. “How do you know he is dead?” asked the Judge. “Because he told me so.” “Not the dead man?” “Pyneweck told me so.” “Is that all?” sneered the Judge. He pondered this matter; and time went on. The Judge was growing a little morose, and less enjoying. The subject struck nearer to his thoughts than he fancied it could have done. But so it is with most undivulged vexations, and there was no one to whom he could tell this one. It was now the ninth; and Mr. Justice Harbottle was glad. He knew nothing would come of it. Still it bothered him; and to-morrow would see it well over. [What of the paper, I have cited? No one saw it during his life; no one, after his death. He spoke of it to Dr. Hedstone; and what purported to be “a copy,” in the old Judge’s hand-writing, was found. The original was nowhere. Was it a copy of an illusion, incident to brain disease? Such is my belief.] CHAPTER VI. ARRESTED. Judge Harbottle went this night to the play at Drury Lane. He was one of those old fellows who care nothing for late hours, and occasional knocking about in pursuit of pleasure. He had appointed with two cronies of Lincoln’s Inn to come home in his coach with him to sup after the play. They were not in his box, but were to meet him near the entrance, and to get into his carriage there; and Mr. Justice Harbottle, who hated waiting, was looking a little impatiently from the window. The Judge yawned. He told the footman to watch for Counsellor Thavies and Counsellor Beller, who were coming; and, with another yawn, he laid his cocked-hat on his knees, closed his eyes, leaned back in his corner, wrapped his mantle closer about him, and began to think of pretty Mrs. Abington. And being a man who could sleep like a sailor, at a moment’s notice, he was thinking of taking a nap. Those fellows had no business to keep a judge waiting.