At last the reporter looked at his watch. “Well, Judge,” he said, with his freckled smile, “I’m sorry you can’t see it my way.”
“You want to catch your train,” the master replied quietly. “It’s all right. I have a revolver here in the drawer.”
“Probably I’m the one he’ll want to see, anyway,” Mr. Roddy said in his cool, joking way. “Quite a little drama? Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night,” said the Judge, without taking his eyes from the man on the floor. “Good-night, Mr. Roddy.”
I can remember how the door closed and how we heard the reporter’s footsteps go down the walk. Then came the click of the gate and after a minute the toot of the train coming from far away and then the silence of the night. Then out of the silence came the sound of Monty Cranch’s breathing, and then the curtains flapped again. But still the Judge stood over the other man, thinking and thinking.
Finally I could not stand it any longer; I had to say something. Anything would do. I pointed to the baby, sound asleep as a little kitten in the chair.
“Have you seen her?” I asked.
“What!” he answered. “How did she come there? You brought her down?”
“That isn’t Julianna,” said I. “It’s his!”
“His baby!” the Judge cried. “That man’s baby!”