“You propose, then, to shield him, to set him up in your place—because he has married Diane?”
Overton smiled as grimly as the judge himself.
“Not quite in my place. I’ve simply arranged to keep it quiet. After all, it’s a personal question, judge. It’s true that he abandoned me; but remember that to stay was to court death. He had no reason to die with me or for me. We mustn’t expect too much.”
“I’ve noticed you didn’t leave Rayburn. I’ve read the account, and he told us so himself. I could forgive him”—the old man laughed harshly—“I could forgive sheer fright—Gerry says it was physical panic—but I’ll never forgive him for marrying my daughter!”
“I don’t ask that.”
There was something in Overton’s tone which made the judge wheel around in his chair and look his visitor sharply in the face. What he found there gave him a shock. He got up, went to the mantel, found his old pipe, and thrust some tobacco into it. While he was fumbling for a match, he spoke over his shoulder.
“I’m going to get a divorce for her. At first I thought we should have to fight for it, but he’s willing to let her get it. He has that much grace in him. I’ll take her out West, establish a residence, and get a divorce for her. We’re done with him—she and I!”
Overton did not trust himself to reply. He rose, instead, to say good-night. The judge swung around.
“Stay, my boy, stay! I want to talk to you, to hear more of your great adventure.”
“Not now, judge. To tell you the truth, I haven’t dined yet.”