I
JUDGE HOSMER’S study was on the second floor of his home. Not a pretentious room. Calf-bound volumes on the shelves that lined the walls; a comfortable chair under a reading light, a work table on which books, papers, pen and ink were usually littered; and a more formal desk where, in laborious longhand and disdaining the services of a stenographer, the Judge wrought out his opinions. There was a homely honesty about the room; a clean suggestion of common sense and fundamental decency; a certain uprightness. Rooms much used do thus at times reflect the characteristics of those who use them.
The Judge was, this evening, at the desk and writing. He used a stiff, stub pen; and he wrote slowly, forming the large characters with care, forming the pellucid sentences with equal care. He consulted no notes; it was his custom to clarify the issues in any case so thoroughly in his own thoughts that there could be no hesitation when the moment came to set those issues down. Half a dozen sheets, already covered with his large hand, lay at his elbow. His pen was half-way down another when a light knock sounded upon his closed door.
The Judge finished the sentence upon which he was engaged, then lifted his eyes and looked across the room and called:
“Come, Mary.”
His wife opened the door and stepped inside. She shut it behind her, and crossed to her husband’s chair, and dropped her hand lightly on his head. He lifted his own hand to smooth hers caressingly.
“Almost through?” she asked.
He nodded. “Another line or two.”
“Jim Cotterill is down-stairs,” she told him.
The Judge seemed faintly surprised. “Jim?” he repeated. And added thoughtfully, half to himself, “Well, now.”