"She may be a nut," admitted the girl, "But she's kinda got me going. Gee I'd like to find the lawyer for her just to find out was she Dorothy Arnold come back--or somebody like that." It was Officer Brennan who had dissuaded her from her attempt to find the Portia Person. He had spied her, standing undecided outside the office building and hailed her as he was about to go off his beat. "Did you find what you were looking for?" His sureness of manner and his uniform impressed her. "I couldn't find the man I wanted," she confided, "so I think I'll just have to see the Judge Person, myself, wouldn't you?" He cogitated. Did she know what judge she wanted to see? She unfolded the grimy hand bill, the "To be sold for unpaid taxes" that Zeb had brought to her. He read it slowly till he came to the "Order of Justice Harlow" at the bottom. "That's an easy one," he cheered her, "I'll take you over there right now and put you next to a fellow who works there. He'll slip you through to his Honor himself and you can tell him your troubles." But in spite of being "slipped through" there was a deal of waiting, sometimes in anterooms, sometimes in corridors, a deal of answering the questions of not overly intelligent clerks, and late afternoon found her sitting primly cuddling her restless doggie, waiting for some one to bring the tax records. She was a little tireder, a little hungrier, a little less sure of herself than when the friendly news girl had advised her to "get a bite." She was keeping her courage high by thinking over and over to herself, "After I see the Judge then I'll go to Dudley Hamilt." It had not occurred to her that this busy place was a court room. It had no stately panelled walls like those that had been painted in the background of the portrait of Grandy's father. Nor did she understand when she was at last ushered into the Justice's presence that he was the man she had been waiting to see. He did not wear a white curly wig and he did not wear a black satin gown the way Grandy's father had. Nor were there any scrolls of vellum with fat beribboned seals in this Judge's hands. Instead, alert slender fingers riffled their way rapidly through a mass of papers that a clerk put before him. Felicia watched the fingers until the close cropped head was lifted and keen gray eyes glanced straight through hers. The abrupt phrase with which he had intended to dismiss her died. He stared at her curiously. He noted the traveling bag at her feet, the absurd old coat and bonnet, the dark circles under her beseeching eyes-- "She looked," as he explained afterward, "like a daguerreotype--old and youthful all at once, faded yet shining--most extraordinary little person--" "You are the Felicia Day mentioned here?" he asked gravely tapping the papers. Felicia tried to smile. She managed it so far as her eyes were concerned but her lips were too tired. She nodded.