Isabel tapped at the library door, and they all saw within when the judge opened to her. Dorothy was sitting on the lounge, her hat and gloves still on, her face pale and tear-stained. The judge waved them back.
“In a moment,” he said; and then he crossed the room to bend over the still little figure on the lounge and to whisper a word of encouragement.
“It is hard to win and lose in the same moment, but you must be brave, my child—for your own sake and mine. I shall keep your secret; your mother mustn’t suspect—now or ever.”
She nodded, and the tears came afresh.
“Go you up to your room,” he added, seeing that there was no present balm for the hurt. “I’ll make your excuses at the table.”
Then he joined the trio in the hall. “Dorothy brought astounding news,” he explained, leading the way to the dining room, “but it comes too late. From what she tells me there seems to be a reasonable doubt of the young man’s guilt; but there is nothing that can be used in evidence, and his conviction is none the less certain.”
There was manifestly nothing to be said, and a sympathetic silence followed the announcement. While they were taking their places at table the telephone rang, and the judge excused himself to answer it.
“Don’t wait on me,” he said. “Harry, lad, take my place and carve, will you?” and he went out and carefully closed the door behind him. And inasmuch as the hall was not yet lighted, he failed to see a shadowy little figure on the stair. It was Dorothy, and she paused and leaned over the balustrade when her father answered the call.
CHAPTER XXXII
SUCH FRIENDS ARE EXULTATION’S AGONY
“Arrah, now, Misther Jarvis, ’tis no use your flatthering me the like of that. Fwhat I know, I know; and that I’ll keep to myself. Besides, wasn’t it Misther Brant himself, poor dear! that says, says he, ‘Mum’s the wurrud, Mary, me jool; sure ’tis but a b’y’s thrick, and I’ll not be having it talked about at all at all.’”