“Tell it, Joe–tell it all!” pleaded his mother, reaching out as if to take his hand.
Joe’s lips parted, and his voice came out of them, strained and shaken, and hoarse, like the voice of an old and hoary man.
“Judge Maxwell, your honor––”
“No, no! Don’t tell it, Joe!”
The words sounded like a warning call to one about to leap to destruction. They broke the tenseness of that moment like the noise of a shot. It was a woman’s voice, rich and full in the cadence of youth; eager, quick, and strong.
Mrs. Newbolt turned sharply, her face suddenly clouded, as if to administer a rebuke; the prosecutor wheeled about and peered into the room with a scowl. Judge Maxwell rapped commandingly, a frown on his face.
And Joe Newbolt drew a long, free breath, while relief moved over his troubled face like a waking wind at dawn. He leaned back in his chair, taking another long breath, as if life had just been granted him at a moment when hope seemed gone.
The effect of that sudden warning had been stunning. For a few seconds the principals in the dramatic picture held 297 their poses, as if standing for the camera. And then the lowering tempest in Judge Maxwell’s face broke.
“Mr. Sheriff, find out who that was and bring him or her forward!” he commanded.
There was no need for the sheriff to search on Joe’s behalf. Quick as a bolt his eyes had found her, and doubt was consumed in the glance which passed between them. Now he knew all that he had struggled to know of everything. First of all, there stood the justification of his long endurance. He had been right. She had understood, and her opinion was valid against the world.