He walked slowly down his stair and across the street to the courthouse. His course was such that he could not see into Mulberry Street. Some persons were hurrying in that direction, but he did not join them. He was too preoccupied to pay much attention to the sounds which came to his ears. As for himself, he could have gone anywhere rather than near to the house of Aurora Lane that morning. A great terror filled his soul, a terror largely of these people among whom he had lived thus long. They had wrecked her home. They might have done worse in their savagery. But it was he himself who was the real cause of that. Would she still keep her oath now, after this? Could she be silent now? He walked on now into the courthouse and down the long hall. He was about to step into the county clerk's office, when he came face to face with a tall man just stepping out. It was Horace Brooks. "Well, Judge," said the latter, "how is it with you today?" He spoke not unkindly, although his own face was haggard and gray. Neither had he slept that night. "It goes badly enough," said Henderson. "Nothing could be much worse. Well?" "You want to know if the grand jury has voted that bill? They have--I have just heard. Of course you know I am counsel of record for the defense." "I didn't know it." "Yes, Judge, there's going to be a fight on this case," said Hod Brooks grimly. "That is, if you really want to fight. I've got nothing left to trade--but, Judge, do you think you and I really ought to fight--over this particular case?" "I can't forswear my own professional duties," began Judge Henderson, his mouth dry in his dull dread, his heart wrenched. He wondered what Hod Brooks knew, what he was going to do. He knew what must come, but he was not ready for the hour. "Come into this room," said Horace Brooks suddenly. "I won't go to your office, and I won't ask you to come to mine. But come in here, and let's have a little talk." They stepped over to the door of the county treasurer's office, across the hall. It was a room of the sort usual in a country courthouse, with its high stools and desks, its map-hung walls, its scattered chairs, its great red record books lying here and there upon the desk top. A young woman sat making some entry in a book. "Miss Carrie," said Horace Brooks to her, "Judge Henderson and I want to talk a little together privately. Please keep us from being disturbed. You run away--we won't steal the county funds." Smilingly the clerk obeyed. Brooks turned to Judge Henderson abruptly. "Look here, Judge," said he. He pointed to a large framed lithograph which hung on the wall--the same which had hung on the wall in the library at the exercises of Saturday night. It was a portrait of the candidate for the United States Senate--Judge Henderson himself. The latter looked at it for a moment without comment, and turned back with an inquiring eye.