The streets were dark, and as he made his way along no sound broke the stillness save the regular tap of his cane upon the plank walk. With resolute force and averted face he passed the courthouse, another block beyond he passed the jail in which the prisoner was awaiting his death, and finally, with the relaxation that comes when one realizes a haven has at last been reached, he got to the open door of Judge Houston's home, and looking through the hall and seeing the family at supper, he slipped quietly into library, and sat down.
The soft glow from two candles on the mantel was pleasant to his tired eyes; there was just light enough in the room for him to see the things that had become familiar and dear to him. His eyes lingered longest on the table where a row of books—law books of reference—always stood in a prim, neat row. In front of them, more intimately handled and never in the same place, thereby showing the love and use given to them, lay the three books from which the old gentleman received his greatest pleasure—Shakespeare, "Some Fruits of Solitude," and that old, leather bound book, worn and frayed at the corners.
In the centre of the table lay the thick portfolio of pigskin, beside it several newly cut quills, and to one side, laid by for the evening, rested the gold snuff-box.
Sargent's glance lingered affectionately upon each article, reluctantly falling at last upon the two notes addressed to himself, which were placed conspicuously on the table. One he knew by its heavily embossed envelope, its green seal, and the lustre of the ink with which it was addressed. Tearing it open indifferently, he started up in surprise, not expecting so sudden a culmination of the difficulty. Jervais had requested him to meet him at daybreak of the next day—if it were convenient. "Of course it is convenient," he murmured half aloud, "only," and his thoughts raced back to the problem of that day.
He turned to the other message, a coarse piece of paper folded over twice and addressed to him in a barely legible script. He unfolded this with a keener interest than the other, and leaning forward so the candle light would aid him in deciphering the words, he read:
"Will you come to see me? I want to tell you something. JACOB PHELPS."
He held the paper a long time in his hands, fingering it after his eyes no longer read the words, and gradually, over his tortured senses, drifted a feeling of peace and hope and joy. At last, under the full realization of the opportunity that had come to him, he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.
In this attitude Judge Houston found him when he entered the library. The old man did not extend his hand, nor for a few moments did he say anything, having learned to read the young face before him like an open book, and knowing that any words except those spoken by Sargent himself would be irrelevant at that moment. Instead, he took down a long German pipe with a china bowl, from the mantel shelf, and filling it with tobacco, seated himself comfortably in a chair and crossed his legs; silent, all the while.
Finally Sargent opened his eyes and looked at the old man without speaking. At last the words came, trembling slightly from his intensity.
"Did you ever convict a man for murder?"