He established himself in his office. He had scarcely done so when Mr. Betts knocked at the door. The sheriff came direct from Mr. Saul and arrived out of breath, but the letter was not mentioned by the judge. He spoke of the crops, the chance of rain, and the intricacies of county politics. The sheriff withdrew mystified, wondering why it was he had not felt at liberty to broach the subject which was uppermost in his mind. His place was taken by Mr. Pegloe, and on the heels of the tavern-keeper came Mr. Bowen. Judge Price received them with condescension, but back of the condescension was an air of reserve that did not invite questions. The judge discussed the extension of the national roads with Mr. Pegloe, and the religion of the Persian fire-worshipers with Mr. Bowen; he permitted never a pause and they retired as the sheriff had done without sight of the letter. The judge's office became a perfect Mecca for the idle and the curious, and while he overflowed with high-bred courtesy he had never seemed so unapproachable--never so remote from matters of local and contemporary interest. “Why don't you show 'em the letter?” demanded Mr. Mahaffy, when they were alone. “Can't you see they are suffering for a sight of it?” “All in good time, Solomon.” He became thoughtful. “Solomon, I am thinking of offering a reward for any information that will lead to the discovery of my anonymous correspondent,” he at length observed with a finely casual air, as if the idea had just occurred to him, and had not been seething in his brain all day. “There you go, Price--” began Mahaffy. “Solomon, this is no time for me to hang back. I shall offer a reward of five thousand dollars for this information.” The judge's tone was resolute. “Yes, sir, I shall make the figure commensurate with the poignant grief I feel. He was my friend and client--” The moisture gathered in his eyes. “I should think that fifty dollars was nearer to being your figure,” suggested the cautious Mahaffy. “Inadequate and most insulting,” said the judge. “Well, where do you expect to get five thousand dollars?” cried Mahaffy in a tone of absolute exasperation. “Where would I get fifty?” inquired the judge mildly. For once Mahaffy frankly owned himself beaten. A gleam of admiration lit up his glance. “Price, you have a streak of real greatness!” he declared. Before the day was over it was generally believed that the judge was wearing his gag with humility; interest in him declined, still the public would have been grateful for a sight of that letter. “Shucks, he's nothing but an old windbag!” said Mr. Pegloe to a group of loungers gathered before his tavern in the early evening.