“Shoreham was young—young, at any rate, for the Bench—and he was unmarried. And somehow I couldn’t fit Shoreham into the situation of loving another man’s wife. There had never been a breath of scandal that I had heard; if there had been, it would have finished him for good. A judge must be like Cæsar’s wife. And Shoreham, even then, had established a reputation for the most scrupulous observance of the law. His enemies called him cruel and harsh; those who knew him better realised that his apparent harshness was merely a cloak he had wrapped tightly round himself as a guard against a naturally tender heart. I don’t know any man that I can think of who had such an undeviating idea of duty as Shoreham, and without being in the least a prig, such an exalted idea of the responsibilities of his position. And to realise suddenly that he was in love with Ruth Granger, as I say, came as a shock. “‘What was the argument about?’ she said, sitting down beside me. “‘Morality _versus_ the Law,’ chipped in Violet. “‘The individual _versus_ the community,’ amended Sir Edward. ‘Justice—real justice—against sickly sentimentality, with all due deference to you, Miss Seymour. There are hard cases, one knows, but hard cases make bad laws. There’s been far too much lately of men taking matters into their own hands—this so-called Unwritten Law. And it has got to stop.’ “‘You would never admit the justification,’ said Ruth slowly. “‘Never—in any circumstances,’ he answered. ‘You have the law—then appeal to the law. Otherwise there occurs chaos.’ “‘And what of the cases where the law gives no redress?’ demanded Violet, and even as she spoke Granger came up the stairs with this girl on his arm. “Ruth Granger rose, deathly white, and gazed speechlessly at her husband’s coarse, sneering face. I don’t think for a moment she fully grasped the immensity of the insult; she was stunned. The footmen were staring open-mouthed; guests passing into the supper-room stopped and smirked. And then it was over; the tension snapped. “‘Have you had any supper, Sir Edward?’ said Ruth calmly, and with her hand on his arm she swept past her husband, completely ignoring both him and the girl, who flushed angrily. “‘I suppose,’ said Violet Seymour to me, as Granger and the girl went into the reception-room, ‘that had Ruth shot that filthy blackguard dead on the stairs, Sir Edward would have piously folded his hands and, in due course, sentenced her to death.’ “And at the moment I certainly sympathised with her point of view.” The Barrister got up and splashed some soda-water into a glass. Then he continued: