William put down the shears and looked angrily at the Judge. "Oh, I can put them down."
"Thank you."
"May I have a cigar, John?"
"Help yourself."
"Much obliged." He went to the desk, took up a box of cigars and walked out unnoticed by the Judge, who had turned his back, following a strand of his sorrow, intertwined with a strand of humor, the two phases of himself which he could not comprehend. He walked slowly to the wall, and, turning, remarked, as he walked toward the preacher, "Bradley, I feel as one waiting for something—some shadow."
"I'm not a shadow," Agnes cried, skipping into the room. Bradley arose with a bow. "No, for shadows may be dark," he replied.
"Did you hear that, Mr. Judge? Did you hear him say that shadows may be dark? Of course, for if they were bright they wouldn't be shadows. May I sit here?" She sat on a corner of the long baize table swinging her feet, as if the music in her soul impelled her to dance, Bradley mused. "Why do you people stick in here all the time?" she went on. "Oh, I see," she added, lifting her hand with a piece of paper adhering to it. "You glue yourselves in here." She plucked off the paper, took out a handkerchief, a dainty bit of lace, and wiped her hand. "Have you just got here, Mr. Bradley? What's the news? Who's murdered on the West Side? They have murdered somebody every day since I came, first one side and then the other, and it's the West Side's turn today. Anybody killed today?"
"I don't know," Bradley replied, "but I hear that a prominent citizen was sand-bagged last night—in front of a church."
"Oh, for pity sake. And had he came out of a church fair? Did the robber get any money?"
"Bradley," said the Judge, "as William would say, she is putting it on you."