"If you'd seen the man—if you'd heard him!... I'm all smashed up by it," he confessed huskily, stopping and staring out of the window.
"I see you are," said the Judge. "Have a drink?"
Carlin shook his head. But the Judge, opening a cupboard in his desk, took out a bottle and one glass, poured a stiff allowance of whiskey and tossed it off neat.
"I'm glad you don't drink much, Laurence," he remarked as he put away the glass. "With your excitable temperament you couldn't stand it."
As Carlin stood silent, staring out, the Judge addressed his back.
"I don't like murder cases—never did. Never could do anything with 'em. My clients were hanged, every time—that was long ago.... I haven't touched a criminal case for—well, years. I'm no jury lawyer. We don't want to go into that, Laurence ... and then, the fellow's a brute."
"No—no!... Wait until I tell you about it...."
Laurence turned round. His tone was calmer but he still looked deeply agitated, and began to pace the floor again.
"Well, take your time.... But I can't see what it is to you," said Judge Baxter curiously.
His genial shrewd old face expressed a somewhat cynical perplexity. If he had ever been deeply moved by human passion and folly, he had forgotten it—for many years it had been only a spectacle to him. All crimes spring from love, so-called, or money. One of these two great mainsprings the Judge understood thoroughly. He knew all about human cupidity. He had made his own fortune out of the desire of some of his fellow-beings to over-reach others, and this golden fountain would never run dry. The Judge had all the law of property at his fingers' ends. His ability to help a corporation to use the law was abundantly recognized and recompensed. He was a noted railroad counsel. Why turn aside from this safe and profitable concern with people's purses, to meddle with the wild impulses of their hearts, so-called?