He rose, jammed his hat down on his head and walked out; he walked the streets for hours.
It was very late when he was admitted to the old jail. It was past time to admit visitors, but the judge was a privileged person. The warden gave up his private room to him and sent for the prisoner. The lamp burnt low on the desk, and the old judge sat before it, heavy with thought. He looked up mechanically when Caleb came in with his quick firm step and faced him. The two greeted each other without words, and Caleb sat down, waiting. He knew his visitor had something on his mind.
Judge Hollis looked at him, studying him, studying the clear-cut lines, the hollowed cheeks, the clear gray eyes, the chiseled lips,—not a handsome face, but one of power. The sordid wretchedness of the story, like a foul weed springing up to choke a useful plant, struck him again with force and disgust.
“I’ve just seen Zeb Bartlett,� he said; “he’s raving to punish the man who wronged his sister. He says you did it!� The old man glared fiercely at the young one.
Caleb’s expression was slightly weary, distinctly disappointed: he had hoped for something of importance. The story of Jean Bartlett was utterly unimportant in his life. “I know it,� he said briefly; “it is easy to accuse, more difficult to prove the truth.�
The judge leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his knees, his head lowered. “Caleb,� he said, “maybe it’s not right to ask you, but, between man and man, I’d like to know God’s truth.�
Caleb Trench returned the old man’s look calmly. “Judge,� he said, “have you ever known me to steal?�
The judge shook his head.
“Or to lie?�
Again the judge dissented.