"You mean," he said, "that you do not feel that there was any contributory carelessness which might in part explain, without in any true sense excusing——"
"Certainly not," said Lydia. "And I have never said anything to anyone that would make them think so."
"I have been misinformed as to your attitude," said the judge.
"Evidently," said Lydia, and almost at once brought the interview to a close by leaving the room.
As she walked down the path to her car a figure came out of the shadow as if it had been waiting for her. It was the same traffic policeman who had stopped her on her way to Eleanor's. He took off his brown cap. She saw his round, pugnacious head and the uncertain curve of his mouth. He was a nice-looking man, and younger than she had supposed—quite boyish in fact. She caught a glimpse of some sort of ribbon on his breast—the croix de guerre. She looked straight at him with interest, and saw that he was tense with embarrassment.
"I believe I have something of yours," he said. "I want to give it back." He was fumbling in his pocket. She couldn't really permit that.
"Bribed people," she thought, "must be content to remain bribed." She walked rapidly toward her car without answering. The chauffeur opened the door for her.
"Home," she said, and drove away.
An hour or so later the judge was giving a description of the interview to the district attorney. It began as a general indictment of the irresponsibility of the wealthy young people of to-day, touching on their dress, appearance and manners. Then it descended suddenly to the particular case.
"She came into this room in a hat the color of a flamingo"—the judge's color sense was not good—"and her skirts almost to her knees; as bold—well, I wouldn't like to tell you what my first idea was on seeing her. She was as hard as—I could have told her that some of her own father's methods were not strictly legal, only the courts were more lenient in those days. A ruthless fellow—Joe Thorne. Do you know this girl?"