Bodney had not distinguished himself. He appeared to be restless and dissatisfied with himself and with his prospects. He thought that the law afforded but a slow and tedious way to make money, and deplored the shortsightedness of his father and his benefactor for not having invested in the mud-hole. Nervousness may inspire force of character, but it more often induces weakness. In many respects Bodney was weak. But the Judge, who should have been a shrewd observer of men as well as of principles, did not see it. In the "youth of old age," a man who, in his younger days, may have been keenly of the world, sometimes turns upon life the goggle eye of optimism. After his retirement from the bench and the more active affairs of the law, the Judge fitted up an office at his home, with desks, long table covered with green baize, books and safe. One evening Bodney sat alone in the home office, deeply brooding. The household was at dinner, and he heard the hearty laughter of the Judge. He was joking with a guest, a preacher, a good fellow. The young man’s brow was dark. Of late he had formed an association with a man named Goyle, clearly an adventurer, but a man to inflame the fancy of a morbid nature. Bodney and Goyle had been much together, at the house and at the office down town, but no one made any objection. Personal freedom was a hobby with the Judge. There were two doors leading into the office, one opening into a hall, the other into a passageway communicating directly with the street. Through the door opening into the passage Goyle entered. He carried a valise in his hand. Bodney looked up. "Halloa, Goyle," said he. "Come in." [Illustration: "Halloa, Goyle," said he. "Come in."] "That’s what I’m doing," Goyle replied, putting down the valise near the door and advancing toward the desk at which Bodney was seated. "Sit down," said Bodney. "That’s what I’m going to do," Goyle replied. He sat down, and for a time both were silent. "Where’s everybody?" Goyle asked. The bass laughter of the Judge and the contralto of a woman’s mirth were heard. "At dinner," said Bodney, nodding toward the dining room. "Don’t you eat?" "Sometimes," Bodney answered, and then after a short silence he asked: "Did you get my note?" "Yes." "What do you think?" "I think you’re scared," said Goyle. Bodney gave him a quick look. "Who wouldn’t be?" "I wouldn’t." "Yes, you would. It’s this way, and there’s no other way to it: The old man has missed money from the safe. He hasn’t said so, but I can tell by the way he acts." Goyle smiled. "Well, but no one but himself knows the combination of the safe. He doesn’t know that you found a piece of paper with the figures on it, does he?" "Of course not, but it won’t be long before he begins to suspect someone." "Which, necessarily, fastens it on you. Is that it?" "Doesn’t it look like it?" "Oh, it might," said Goyle. "That is, if you let it?"