The Judge walked slowly down to the gate; spoke to the man he had employed in Sam Warden's place, a Scotchman who had begun to refresh the lawn with a garden hose; bowed affably in response to the salutation of the elder Louden, who was passing, bound homeward from the factory, and returned to the house with thoughtful steps.In the hall he encountered his wife; stopped to speak with her upon various household matters; then entered the library, which was his workroom.He locked the door; tried it, and shook the handle.
After satisfying himself of its security, he pulled down the window-shades carefully, and, lighting a gas drop-lamp upon his desk, began to fumble with various documents, which he took from a small safe near by.But his hands were not steady;he dropped the papers, scattering them over the floor, and had great difficulty in picking them up.
He perspired heavily: whatever he touched became damp, and he continually mopped his forehead with his sleeve.After a time he gave up the attempt to sort the packets of papers; sank into a chair despairingly, leaving most of them in disorder.
A light tap sounded on the door.
"Martin, it's supper-time."
With a great effort he made shift to answer:
"Yes, I know.You and Mamie go ahead.I'm too busy to-night.I don't want anything."A moment before, he had been a pitiful figure, face distraught, hands incoherent, the whole body incoordinate, but if eyes might have rested upon him as he answered his wife they would have seen a strange thing; he sat, apparently steady and collected, his expression cool, his body quiet, poised exactly to the quality of his reply, for the same strange reason that a young girl smiles archly and coquettes to a telephone.