He turned around then and grinned as if it hurt him—as if he was trying to hide some pain. I had lit the lamp and you cannot begin to know how funny his white face looked under his bright red hair.
“Can I get a drink of water?” he said, choking, and then over he went face foremost into the morris chair.
I ran into the kitchen and what with the water splashing in the sink, I did not hear the Judge come in, and the first I knew about his being there was when I went back into the library. There he stood, with his tortoise-shell glasses in his long fingers, looking down at Mr. Roddy, sitting weak and blinking in his chair.
“Sorry, Judge, to faint away like a queen dowager in your library,” said the reporter, with his everlasting American good nature. “But I came in to use the first telephone I could find. I was a little tired. My name’s Roddy.”
“Mr. Roddy,” said Judge Colfax, holding out his hand, “I know of you very well and of your work on this case.”
“Too bad!” said Roddy,—“the outcome?”
“I express no opinion,” the Judge answered in a weary voice.
“The prisoner lost no time in finding liquor again,” said the other. “He went to a bar before he went to his baby.”
This reached the Judge. His eyes snapped. There was a low growling in his throat.
“Margaret,” said he to me, “bring this gentleman some brandy. You will rest here a while, Mr. Roddy. I suppose you will not leave until the eleven-thirty train.”