"Does Your Honor desire that this matter be argued before the Supreme Court?" inquired Mr. Tutt suavely. "If so I will ask that the prisoner be paroled in my custody. Judge Winthrop is waiting."
Babson had turned pale. Facing a dozen newspapermen, pencils in hand, he quailed. To hell with "face." Why, if he went on any longer with the farce the papers would roast the life out of him. With an apology for a smile that was, in fact, a ghastly grin, he addressed himself to the waiting group of jurymen, lawyers and reporters.
"Of course, gentlemen," he said, "I never had any real intention of dealing harshly with Miss Beekman. Undoubtedly she acted quite honestly and according to her best lights. She is a very estimable member of society. It will be unnecessary, Mr. Tutt, for you to argue the writ before Judge Winthrop. The relator, Althea Beekman, is discharged."
"Thank you, Your Honor!" returned Mr. Tutt, bowing profoundly, and lowering an eyelid in the direction of the gentlemen of the press. "You are indeed a wise and upright judge!"
The wise and upright judge rose grandly and gathered his robes about the judicial legs.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he remarked from his altitude to the reporters.
"Good morning, judge," they replied in chorus. "May we say anything about the writ?"
Judge Babson paused momentarily in his flight.
"Oh! Perhaps you might as well let the whole thing go," he answered carelessly. "On the whole I think it better that you should."
As they fought their way out of the doorway Charley Still, of the Sun, grinned at "Deacon" Terry, of the Tribune, and jocosely inquired: "Say, Deac., did you ever think why one calls a judge 'Your Honor'?"