CHAPTER XII
ANNE OGLESBY
Judge William Henderson was sitting alone in the front room of his cool and spacious office, before him his long table with its clean glass top, so different from the work-bench of the average country lawyer. Everything about him was modern and perfect in his office equipment, for the judge had reached the period in his development in which he brought in most of his own personal ideas from an outer and a wider world—that same world which now occupied him as a field proper for one of his ambitions.
As he sat he was a not unpleasing figure of middle-aged success. His gray hair was swept back smoothly from his temples; his red cheeks, fresh reaped, bore the tinge of health. The large white hand before him on the glass-topped table betokened prosperity and success in every faint and fat-hid line.
Judge Henderson now was absorbed in the contemplation of a bit of paper which lay in his hand. It was a message from the telephone company, and it came from Slattery, county prosecutor. Something in it was of disturbing nature. Judge Henderson's brow was furrowed, his face was troubled. He seemed, thus alone and not stimulated by an audience, years older than he had been but now.
He had been looking at this bit of paper for some time so intently that now he did not hear his hall door open—did not see one who paused there and then came, lightfooted, swiftly, across the space, to catch him and blindfold him as he sat. He heard the rustle of her skirts, and knew at once the deep counterfeit of her voice.
"Who is it?" she demanded, her hand over his eyes.
"Anne!" he exclaimed, catching at her hand. "You are here—when did you come?"
She went round and kissed him. "Just now," said she, "on the train from the city. You were not expecting me?"