Anne scarcely had left the office when Judge Henderson, stepping into the inner room, pulled open a certain door of a cabinet beneath the washhand-stand. He drew forth a half-filled bottle of whisky, shook it once meditatively, and poured himself an adequate drink, refreshing himself with water at the tap. He stood for a moment, the half-emptied glass in his hand, looking at his features in the little glass which hung above the cabinet.

Not an unpleasant face it seemed to him; for so slowly had the lines come in his features, so slowly the gray in his hair, that almost he was persuaded they were not there at all. Delayed by the mirror to the extent of having consumed but half of his refreshing draft, yet purposing further imbibition, Judge Henderson paused at the sound of some person ascending the outer stair.

It was a very halting and uncertain step that came this time, one which seemed to double on each lift of the stair, with an accentuating tap-tap, as of a stick used in aid. But after a time he sensed its pause at his door. There was a rap, a faint little rap, although the door itself was ajar. Judge Henderson discreetly returned to the cabinet his half-finished glass of whisky and water, and stepped into the other room.

It was Miss Julia Delafield whom he met.

She was standing, her hand on the knob of the door, as if seeking support, or rather as though ready for flight. Her eyes were especially large and luminous now, as always they were when any supreme emotion governed her. Her cheeks were flushed in that fashion which she never yet had learned to control. Her smooth brown hair was held tightly back under her cool summer hat, and the hands resting on her smooth-topped cane were well gloved. Not ill-looking she was as she stood, stooped a trifle, bent over a bit.

She was half a-tremble now with the excitement that she felt. To any chance observer, even at this hour of this Sabbath day, it must have seemed that here was only a client come with purpose of consultation with an attorney. To the angels above who looked down on such matters as this, it must have seemed a pathetic scene, this in which Miss Julia figured now. To any human being knowing all the facts it must have been apparent that this call upon Judge Henderson was Miss Julia Delafield's great adventure.

It was her great adventure—the greatest ever known in all her life; and she had dared it now only because of two of the strongest emotions known to a woman's soul. These are two. They both come under a common name. That name is love.

It was love had brought Miss Julia hither. Love in the first place for DieudonnÉ Lane—or was it, really, in the first place, love for him? For we, who know as much as Aurora Lane knew of Miss Julia's secret—who once saw her gazing adoringly at a certain framed portrait when she fancied herself alone—would have known that there was more than one mansion in the heart of the little lame librarian.

Helpless, resigned—but yet a woman—Miss Julia loved in the first place as every woman with any touch of normality does love in spite of all. She had known all these years that her love was hopeless, that it was wrong, that it was a sin—she classed it as her sin. And her sin being her own, she hugged it to her bosom and wept over it these twenty years—became repentant over it—became defiant for it; prayed over it and clung to it—in short, comported herself as any woman would. And now Miss Julia, being what she was, stood flushed, her tiding pulses rising to her eyes, staining her fair skin deep to her very neck, as she faced her great adventure—as she stood looking into the face she had framed on her wall, framed on her desk, framed in her heart as well, in silver and gold and all the brilliants and the gems of a woman's soul.

But she was here by reason of a twofold love. Always in her heart, since she could remember, there had been the great secondary longing for something small to love, to hold in her arms—the desire for a child of her own—the one thing which, as Miss Julia knew, might never be for her.

Indeed, this great craving had always remained unformulated, unidentified, until that time, years and years ago, when she first saw the baby of Aurora Lane lifting up its hands to her. So she had become one-half a mother, at the least.

He was half her boy, at least, he who now lay in prison. A woman is a coward as to revealing her love for her chosen mate—she will conceal that, deny that, to the death. But for the child her love is different—then she becomes bold—she will defy all the world—will force herself even into situations otherwise unthinkable. Except for her love for Don Lane, the fatherless, Miss Julia would never have undertaken to find a father for him.

But that child had a father! Each must have. Ah! how must the angels have wept over that piteous spectacle of Miss Julia in her own room, looking smilingly at the face she saw pictured here in her own hand—the face of one whom she held to be a great man, a noble man, a man good, just, wise, one with love and kindness in his heart as well as brawn and brains in his physical self. Yes, there was a father.... And he was perfect, heroic, for her; her love being thus much blessed by that divine blindness love works within us all.

Now, the face which Miss Julia saw in her boudoir, the face which she saw framed upon the wall of her library room, was the same which she saw now close at hand! She started, flushed, trembled, finding difference between a picture and a man.

Judge Henderson was urbane, as always with a woman. He led her to a seat, taking pains to turn on another clip of the electric light, which Miss Julia suddenly wished he had not done, since now she was most sensible of her uncontrollable blushes.

Yes, it was a great adventure! She had never before been alone with him—not in all her life. She had never been this close to him before. It was somewhat cruel now; but the angels have their ways of being cruel with us at times.

"Miss Julia," he began with an extra unctuousness in his tones, "Miss Julia, my dear girl, I surely am delighted to see you here. You have never before been here, I am persuaded—this is the first time in all our long and pleasant acquaintance. If ever in the past I have been able to be of service to you——"

In any conversation Judge Henderson was sure to bring the talk around to himself, to his own deeds, his own ambitions. His was an egotism so extreme as to be almost beyond accountability—he was a moron not in mentality but in sense of proportion. He could not have put two square blocks together if one of these blocks had to do with the interest of another but himself. There are such men, and at times they go far.

Miss Julia flushed again prettily, but she was too much the lady to giggle or squirm or do any of those unlovable things by which the hopeless female makes herself more hopeless. She was used to hearing herself addressed as "Miss Julia" by all the world; but it seemed none the less especially sweet to hear the words in these rich, full, manly tones. (In her diary she wrote, "He addressed me in rich, full, manly tones.")

"Yes, I came as soon as my duties allowed me to get away today, Judge. It was a busy day for me, although it is the Sabbath. I was classifying some of the books. Thanks to your generosity, we have just received a good shipment.

"But you see, the town is all wrapped up in all these other things that have happened—that's why I came, Judge Henderson."

"I presume you have reference to that unfortunate young man who now lies in prison? In what capacity then can I serve you, Miss Julia?" His tone now was icy and reserved.

"I came to you, Judge Henderson, because I knew I would find in you a champion for justice. Why, all the town has come to depend on you for almost everything! I suppose that is why I came—it seemed the natural thing to do."

Judge Henderson, regretting his half-finished glass, now impossible, coughed behind his hand.

"I am afraid, Miss Julia," said he, "that you don't quite know who he is, that boy."

"Ah, do I not! Why, he is my boy, my own boy!"

"I beg pardon, but what do you mean, Miss Julia?"

"I say he's my boy! What I say about that is privileged—it's professional, Judge Henderson. No one else has heard me say what I am telling you now. But he is my boy—my love has gone into him, the same as if I were his mother."

He only stared as she rushed on.

"I know his mother—we have been friends here since we were girls, real friends. I'm the only friend she's got in this town—and the only fair and kind thing this town has ever done has been to allow me to be the friend of Aurora Lane. I suppose that's because I am only the little lame librarian! I don't count. She doesn't count. But—well, between us two—we've had a boy!"

He stared, pale, as she went on:

"Between us two, we've brought him up. We've educated him. Between us two, we have saved our money—it wasn't much—and we've managed to give him something of an education, something of a life more than he could have gotten in this town. We have put him through college—we have given him a profession—we were going to give him a start.

"I say 'we,' and I mean that. But, it isn't the money of mine that went into him—it's my love—it's the love I felt for him! Why, Judge, I've seen him grow up. I've held him in my two hands, this way, when he was so little ... oh, very little.... So you see, he's my boy, too!

"And so," she added inconsequently, as he made no answer, "I came to you." (What the angels understood in Miss Julia's unspoken words then they did not make plain to the ears of the man who heard them.)

Judge Henderson sat astounded, looking at her steadily, unable to grasp all the emotion which evidently she felt, unable wholly to understand an act of clean unselfishness on the part of any human being.

"You see," said Miss Julia tremblingly, after a time—"his father—I never knew his father. She'd never tell me—I never asked but once. But you see, I only fancied that he had a father. I fancied I was his mother. I fancied——" But now Miss Julia's voice failed her, and her blushes alone spoke.

"I see," said Judge Henderson, not unkindly, and breathing more freely, "you fancied that you held an undivided interest in this child, this young man." She did not see his face very plainly, did not catch his hesitation as he engaged on this touchy theme.

Miss Julia nodded rapidly, swallowing hard. Her face was very beautiful indeed now. (The angels must have smiled with tears in their eyes as they looked down upon her now and saw how pathetically beautiful she was!)

"And that interest is still undivided?"

"Yes, we've not seen each other very much, Aurora and I, today, because things have been traveling so fast, but we are—we are partners in this trouble, as in everything else. We've got to have a lawyer, of course. There's not much money left between us—even my next month's salary is pledged. It cost more than we thought to get him through the graduation. There were clothes, you know—many things." And now she flushed again vividly. She was thinking of Don's little clothes, which once long ago she had helped to sew; and the angels knew this, gravely.

"He's a splendid young man, our boy!" she broke out again at length. "Can't you see that? Good in his classes—and an athlete—a splendid one. He's such a gentleman in all his ways, Judge Henderson, a son worthy of a father, of some good father, if only he had one! His father died, you know, when Don was just a baby." She was not looking at him now, not daring, as she went on.

"But you see, we are in trouble about him. That may come to anyone. Why, even you yourself, Judge Henderson, successful as you are—some time even you may know such a thing as trouble. It is the common human lot. And I have been told enough——"

"If I were in trouble," said Judge Henderson gallantly, and with a push of a full ounce of Monongahela back of his words, "I would go to just some such woman as you for help. But women don't seem to see any of the intervening obstacles that exist, do they, Miss Julia?"

"If we did, the world would stop," said Miss Julia, simply. And spoke a great truth.

"None the less there are obstacles," said he, after a time. "I fear there are insuperable ones, my dear." ("He called me 'My dear!'" wrote Miss Julia in her diary.)

"Why, not at all! I can't believe that, Judge. We'll manage it all in some way, Aurora and I. And, naturally we come to you as our champion—who should help us if not you yourself? Do I say too much, Judge Henderson?" she inquired timidly.

"No, not too much," said he with much modesty, "not too much, I trust. I hope I have always had, at every stage of my own career, the confidence of all my friends in this community."

There was a little pause. "But also, Miss Julia," he continued, raising a hand, "wait a minute—wait a minute. In order to deserve the confidence of all my friends I have always been forced to adhere to that course which to me and my own conscience seemed just and right. I will not undertake to disguise the truth, Miss Julia, I am already retained for the prosecution of this case. I must not listen to you coming to ask me to act for the defense. That at least is the present status of affairs. I shall be guided all along by my sense of right and duty. At present I cannot take the case for the defense."

She was feeling at the head of her stick, stumblingly, half rising. Suddenly it seemed to her that the walls were closing in upon her, that she must get away, get out into the open.

"That's cruel!" she exclaimed.

"At times it is necessary for us to be cruel," said Judge Henderson, virtuously. "If I am cruel, I regret with all my heart that it must be cruelty to one whom so long I have held in such esteem as I do you. We have long known your life, how exquisitely ordered it has been. I have never known before, of course, how much it was wrapped up with this young man's life. I am astonished at what I have learned. It is only my own high standard of honor, my dear—that same standard to which I have unflinchingly adhered at whatever cost it might entail upon me—which enables me to refuse any request that you might make me. Now I am pained and grieved, I am indeed."

A tear stood in the corner of Judge Henderson's eyes. It was an argument which he always had at hand if need were—an argument which had won him perhaps more than one case before a jury. And now he felt himself, as always, the central figure, appealing to a jury, extenuating, explaining, expounding. Moreover, he felt himself misjudged, an injured man. He did not care at the time to divulge any of the plan he but now had confided to Aurora and Anne.

"I have hurt you!" said Miss Julia, impulsively. "Oh, I would never mean to do that." She held out a hand swiftly, in part forgetful of her errand.

He took her hand in both his own—small and white it was, and veined somewhat, ink-stained as to some of the fingers—a hand which rested trembling in his own. (Now, what the angels saw is not for mortals to inquire! "He took my hand in both his own!" wrote Miss Julia in her diary.)

Judge Henderson gallantly clasped the hand and drew it a trifle closer to his bosom. "You believe me, do you not, my dear?" said he. "It grieves me to give you any pain. As for me, it does not matter." He dashed the tear from his eye.

But now Miss Julia's courage failed her. Her double sacrifice for the child and the child's unknown and uncreated father had failed! She limped toward the door. Her great adventure was ended.

But, at least, she had been alone in the presence of the great man whom she had loved these many years. And she had found him in all ways worthy! He was still a hero in her eyes, a great man, a noble man—yes, she was sure of that.

How must the angels have sighed as Miss Julia stumbled down the stair with this thing in her heart! For, in all her heart, she knew that, had she been young as Aurora Lane once was young, and had such a man as this asked of her anything—anything—she would have given! She would have yielded gladly all she had to yield—she would have given her life into his keeping.... For of such is the kingdom of love, if not the kingdom of heaven. And as to that last let the angels say, who watched poor Miss Julia as she stumbled down the stair.