It was a bright spring day. For the second time since his marriage the maples round the square were putting out their brilliant young leaves. But there was no brightness in the throng under the maples. A sombre excitement moved them, a low-toned angry murmur followed Carlin's progress. It was hardly personal to him, however, or only faintly, doubtfully so. He was recognized respectfully, and responded with curt nods, or sometimes a quick lifting of his hand, like a military salute.
He ran up the steps into his own office, and through this to Judge Baxter's, entering with a quick rap on the glass, closing the door sharply behind him. The Judge was alone, writing at his desk, and looked round rather absently, pushing his spectacles up on his forehead. Carlin flung his hat on the rickety sofa in the corner and standing by the desk, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, frowning, he said firmly:
"Judge, we must take this case."
The Judge looked at him now with attention, but without answering. Resistance showed in his face, but he put out his lower lip and thoughtfully shifted his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other.
"He sent for me and I was admitted to see him, as his counsel," Laurence went on in the same quick urgent tone. "And then—we must do it, that's all."
The Judge looked at the sheet of paper before him, half-filled with his crabbed painstaking writing, laid down his pen, and leaned back in his chair.
"Why?" he demanded coolly.
"My God, Judge!" Carlin burst out.
With an effort to master himself, he turned away and walked several times across the floor.