There was a striking contrast between the two men as they stood there on the steps of the City Hall. Judge Jerningham was nearly sixty; he had a stalwart frame, almost to be called stocky; his black hair was grizzled only, and his full beard was only streaked with white. He had large, dark eyes, deep-set under cavernous brows. His clothes fitted him loosely, and, although not exactly out of style, they were not to be called modish in either cut or material. Curtis Van Dyne was full thirty years younger; he was fair and slight, and he wore a drooping mustache. He was dressed with obvious care, and his garments suited him. He looked rather like a man of fashion than like a young fellow who had his way to make at the bar.
“By the way,” said the Judge, after a little pause, which gave Van Dyne time to wonder why it was that the elder man had called him—“by the way, how is your sister? I saw her in church on Sunday, and she looked a little pale and peaked, I thought.”
“Oh, Martha’s all right,” the young man answered, briskly. “Aunt Mary attends to that.”
“Do you know what struck me on Sunday as I looked at Martha?” asked the Judge. “It was her likeness to her mother at the same age.”
“Yes,” Van Dyne replied, “Aunt Mary says Martha’s very like mother as a girl.”
“And your mother was never very hearty,” pursued the Judge. “Don’t you think it might be well to get the girl out of town for a little while next month? March is very hard on those whose bronchial tubes are weakened.”
“I guess Martha can stand another March in New York,” the young man responded. “She’s all right enough. I don’t say it wouldn’t be good for her to go South for a few weeks, but—Well, you know I can’t telephone for my steam-yacht to be brought round to the foot of Twenty-third Street, and I don’t own any stock in Jekyll Island.”
The Judge made no immediate answer, and again there was an awkward silence.
The younger man broke it. He held out his hand once more. “It’s pleasant to see you looking so fit,” he said, cordially.
The other took his hand and held it. “Curtis,” he began, “it isn’t any of my business, I suppose, and yet I don’t know. Who is to speak if I don’t?”