Marshall Langham paused on the court-house steps; he was shaking as with an ague. He passed a tremulous hand again and again across his eyes, as though to shut out something, a memory--a fantasy he wanted to forget; but he well knew that at no time could he forget. Gilmore, coming from the building, stepped to his side. "Well, Marsh, what do you think?" he said. "What do I think?" the lawyer, repeated dully. "Doesn't it seem to you that Jack North has been rather unlucky in his movements?" "Oh, they make me tired!" cried Langham, with sudden passion. Gilmore stared at him, coldly critical. The lawyer moved away. "Going to your office, Marsh?" the gambler asked. "No, I'm going home," Langham said shortly, and went down the steps into the street. Home--until he could pull up and get control of himself, that was the best place for him! He turned into the Square, and from the Square into High Street, and ten minutes later paused before his own door. After a brief instant of irresolution he entered the house. Evelyn was probably down-town at that hour, on one of the many errands she was always making for herself. Without removing his hat or overcoat he dropped into a chair before the library fire. A devastating weariness possessed him, but he knew he could not hide there in his home. To-day he might, to-morrow even, but the time would come when he must go out and face the world, must listen to the endless speculation concerning Mount Hope's one great sensation, the McBride murder. Five minutes passed while he sat lost in thought, then he quitted his chair and went to a small cabinet at the other side of the room, which he unlocked; from it he took a glass and a bottle. With these he returned to his place before the fire and poured himself a stiff drink. "I was mad!" he said with quivering lips. "Mad!" he repeated, and again he passed his shaking hand across his eyes. Once more he filled his glass and emptied it, for the potent stuff gave him a certain kind of courage. Placing the bottle and glass on the table at his elbow, he resumed his seat. The bottle was almost empty when, half an hour later, he heard the house door open and close. It was Evelyn. Presently she came into the room, still dressed as if for the street. "Why, what's the matter, Marsh?" she asked in surprise. "Matter? Nothing," he said shortly. She glanced at the bottle and then at her husband. "Aren't you well?" she demanded. "I'm all right." "I hope you aren't going to start that now!" and she nodded toward the bottle. He made an impatient gesture. "Marshall, I am going to speak to the judge; perhaps if he knew he could do or say something; I am not going to bear this burden alone any longer!" "Oh, what's the use of beginning that; can't you see I'm done up?" he said petulantly. "I don't wonder; the way you live is enough to do any one up, as you call it; it's intolerable!" she cried. "What does it matter to you?"