When she was across the railroad track on her homeward way he went back to his armchair, sat down, laid his arms upon his desk and his head upon his arms.
Noon came and passed unnoticed. The down train snorted by, and he did not look up. Then the long afternoon went slowly. He stayed where he was, scarcely moving. Afternoon merged into twilight. Darkness crept into the courtroom.
The banging of the unfixed section of the rickety sidewalk roused the Judge at last. And as the loose boards nearer at hand flapped and creaked under a light tread he sat up and got stiffly to his feet.
The knob of the front door turned and a slender figure in white appeared in the doorway. Then, “Gid!” called an anxious voice—a girl’s voice. “Gid! Are you there?”
“Yas,” answered the Judge. “I’m here. Is it—Alicia?”
“Gid!” she cried tremulously; “poor, poor Gid!”
He walked toward her slowly. “What you pore Giddin’ me for?” he asked.
“Mrs. Luce told me—about what Homer’s done.”
The Judge came short. “She did? Can’t that woman keep nothin’ to herself? W’y”—pleadingly and reaching out a hand—“let me explain before you—w’y, that boy, Alicia, he only——”
“Oh, it wasn’t a joke!” she interrupted. “Mrs. Luce thinks it was. But I know. Oh, you dear old Gid, you’re trying to shield him. And he doesn’t deserve it.”