"You don't understand, do you?" asked Good with ineffable sadness in his voice.
"Yes," said Bassett, half bitterly, half sadly, "I understand."
The tall man smiled—if the pitiful, hopeless expression that came into his face could be called a smile, and put his hand on the other's shoulder.
"No," he said softly, "you don't."
As he went quietly out, from what seemed like a death-chamber, and felt Bassett's hard eyes following him, he knew that in truth something very precious had died that night.
In his own office he sat with his head in his hands.
"I'm not a machine—I'm only a man," he repeated over and over again, until he heard the refrain without speaking. "If I could only make them understand." His voice was helpless. He knew that he only half understood himself.
How long he sat thus puzzling the mystery of his own nature, he never knew. But presently he became aware that he was not alone. The room was in only partial darkness, a street lamp filling it with a sickly glow. He raised his eyes, and for a second time that night, met those of Judge Wolcott. But they were different. The sharp terror had given place to heavy pain.
"Hello," said Good, as if this was quite what he had expected.
"Mr. Good, I...." The Judge's voice was a pitiful travesty of its former masterful assurance. Never before had the Judge been obliged so to humble himself. "I don't know what I can say—only—I—I...."