Judge Maxwell started from his reverie. In the minute 345 that had passed between the ring at the door and the entry of Hiram, he had put the visitor out of his head.
“A gentleman to see me, Hiram? Who is it?”
“No, sah; I don’t think he’s ’zactly a gentleman, sah. I don’t know who he is; he nevah give me no card, sah, but he’s moughty sploshed and blustery lookin’.”
“Well–” the judge rose, halting his speech as if thinking of one thing and speaking of another–“fetch him in here, Hiram.”
“He’s drippin’ and drappin’ like a leaky pail, sah,” said Hiram, shaking his cottony old head.
“No matter; he’ll do no harm, Hiram.”
Hiram brought the visitor in. The judge advanced to meet him.
The stranger’s rubber coat glistened in the light, and the hat that he carried in his hand trickled a little stream on the carpet as he crossed the room. Old Hiram lingered at the door, holding his candle aloft.
The stranger stopped midway between Judge Maxwell and the door, as if uncertain of his welcome, or conscious just at that moment of his drenched and dripping state. He was a tall man and sparely built, and his light-colored wet hair lay in little ringlets against his temples. His mustache was short and stubby. His garments were splashed with mud, as if he had come a long distance over rough roads. There was a haggard and harried look in the man’s eyes; he seemed at the highest pitch of nervous tension. His lips were set in a grim line, as if he struggled to hold something from utterance. His eyes were wide and wild.
“Judge Maxwell,” he began, looking around him from side to side in quick starts, “I must apologize to you for coming into your house in this condition, and for this late call. But I’m here on important business; I ask you to give me a few minutes of your time alone.” 346