"The saints laugh with an old man," said Bradley. "Don’t," the Judge interposed, with a slow gesture. "Your roses are pretty, but you bring them to a funeral. No, I don’t mean that. I mean that I am simply worried over a little matter, but I am getting better and will be all right pretty soon. I shall be my old self in a very short time." Bodney entered, and stood looking fixedly at the Judge. "What is it, George?" Bodney nodded to Bradley and Agnes. "I beg your pardon, but I must see the Judge alone." Bradley asked Agnes if she would accept of banishment with him. "Yes," she said. "Come on." "It is not necessary," the Judge spoke up. "We can—" "I beg your pardon," Bodney broke in, "but it is necessary." "Of course it is," Agnes declared. "As Mr. William would say, we are not in the plot." "No," said Bodney, bowing to her. As they were going out, the Judge called to the preacher. "Don’t go away without seeing me again, Bradley. I want you to spend the day with me." Bodney leaned against the table, stepped off, came back, and stood looking down upon the Judge. The old man glanced up. "Well?" It was some time before Bodney could speak. His words seemed dry in his mouth. At last he began: "I carried half of a heavy load. Something has thrown the other half on me, and I can’t stand up under it—dispatch—railroad wreck—" The Judge jumped out of his chair. "What!" Bodney continued. "Yes. Goyle is dead." "Oh, Goyle. I was afraid—where?" "In Michigan, at fifteen minutes to eleven, yesterday. I have cause to note the time. The load—" "Well, go ahead. But let me tell you now, George, you have no cause to regret the broken association. I deplore the man’s death, of course, but I begun to feel that his influence upon you was bad. I had begun to dream about him, and to fear that he had a strange influence upon me. But go ahead." "Half of it was crushing me, and I can’t stand it all. I—" "Why, what’s the matter? What are you trying to tell. Go ahead." "Judge, Goyle robbed the safe—Goyle and I—wait—I gave him the combination—he made up for Howard—I—" The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head, his eyes fixed on Bodney’s breast. Bodney did not flinch. The old man raised his eyes, to meet a steady gaze; and he stood with the shears high in his hand. He had uttered no outcry, no sound came from him, no sound that could have been heard beyond the door—only a low groan, like the moan of a fever-stricken man, turning over in his sleep. [Illustration: The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head.] "Kill me, Judge, I deserve it." The shears fell from the old man’s hand, and he dropped upon the chair, his arms upon the table and his face upon them. "I wish you had struck me."