“I believe I’ve seen him before,” remarked Judge Rutherford, “but I don’t know him.”
“He’s been hanging about the place for weeks,” said Farquhar. “He’s always in the strangers’ gallery when claims come up for discussion. He looks as if he’d be likely to get what he has come for, Hoosier as he is.”
“I want to talk to you about the De Willoughbys,” said Rutherford. “I can’t rest until I’ve told someone about it. I want you to advise me what to do.”
Farquhar allowed himself to be led away into a more secluded spot. He was not, it must be confessed, greatly interested, but he was well disposed towards the member from Hamlin and would listen. They sat down together in one of the rooms where such talk might be carried on, and the Judge forthwith plunged into his story.
It was, as his own instincts had told him, a good story. He was at once simple and ornate in the telling—simple in his broad directness, and ornate in his dramatic and emotional touches. He began with the picture of the De Willoughbys of Delisleville—the autocratic and aristocratic Judge, the two picturesque sons, and the big, unpicturesque one who disappeared from his native town to reappear in the mountains of North Carolina and live his primitive life there as the object of general adulation. He unconsciously made Big Tom the most picturesque figure of the lot. Long before he had finished sketching him, Farquhar—who had been looking out of the window—turned his face towards him. He began to feel himself repaid for his amiable if somewhat casual attention. He did not look out of the window again. The history of big Tom De Willoughby alone was worth hearing. Farquhar did not find it necessary to call Judge Rutherford’s attention to the fact that Sheba and the mystery of Blair’s Hollow were not to be regarded as evidence. He realised that they adorned the situation and seemed to prove things whether it was strictly true that they did so or not. The discovery of the coal, the fortunes and disasters of Judge de Willoughby, the obstinate loyalty abhorred and condemned of his neighbours, his loneliness and poverty and death—his wasted estates, the big, bare, empty house in which his sole known heir lived alone, were material to hold any man’s attention, and, enlarged upon by the member from Hamlin, were effective indeed.
“Now,” said the Judge, wiping his forehead when he had finished, “what do you think of that? Don’t you think these people have a pretty strong claim?”
“That story sounds as if they had,” answered Farquhar; “but the Government isn’t eager to settle claims—and you never know what will be unearthed. If Judge De Willoughby had not been such a blatantly open old opposer of his neighbour’s political opinions these people wouldn’t have a shadow of a chance.”
“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Rutherford, delightedly; “he was persecuted—persecuted.”
“It was a good thing for his relatives,” said Farquhar. “Did you say the people had come to Washington?”
“All three of them,” answered the Judge, and this time his tone was exultant; “Tom, and Sheba, and Rupert. They’ve rented some little rooms out near Dupont Circle.”