"Where is his home?"
"Small use to take her there," one man observed, recounting part of the interview that had taken place a short time before. But no one knew where he lived. The muffled man left the saloon abruptly, evidently much disgusted.
Stepping into the street he called a cab just passing. After having had the half-dead girl placed in the vehicle, the gentleman followed, slamming the door.
Then he took off his great coat and threw it over her tattered garments.
Judge Thorn was a tender-hearted man.
CHAPTER II.
THE THORNS AT HOME.
The Thorn homestead, like the family whose name it bore, was magnificent and substantial in an unassuming way. Its gray gables seemed to look with a frown on the gingerbread style of architecture that had grown up around it. Under the trees on its lawn, three generations of Thorns had grown to man's estate, and every one of them had become a lawyer.