"It goes badly enough," said Henderson. "Nothing could be much worse. Well?"
"You want to know if the grand jury has voted that bill? They have—I have just heard. Of course you know I am counsel of record for the defense."
"I didn't know it."
"Yes, Judge, there's going to be a fight on this case," said Hod Brooks grimly. "That is, if you really want to fight. I've got nothing left to trade—but, Judge, do you think you and I really ought to fight—over this particular case?"
"I can't forswear my own professional duties," began Judge Henderson, his mouth dry in his dull dread, his heart wrenched. He wondered what Hod Brooks knew, what he was going to do. He knew what must come, but he was not ready for the hour.
"Come into this room," said Horace Brooks suddenly. "I won't go to your office, and I won't ask you to come to mine. But come in here, and let's have a little talk."
They stepped over to the door of the county treasurer's office, across the hall. It was a room of the sort usual in a country courthouse, with its high stools and desks, its map-hung walls, its scattered chairs, its great red record books lying here and there upon the desk top.
A young woman sat making some entry in a book. "Miss Carrie," said Horace Brooks to her, "Judge Henderson and I want to talk a little together privately. Please keep us from being disturbed. You run away—we won't steal the county funds."
Smilingly the clerk obeyed. Brooks turned to Judge Henderson abruptly.
"Look here, Judge," said he.