“It's authentic enough,” said Mr. Saul impatiently.
The judge gave a sigh of relief; he could have hugged the little clerk who had put to rest certain miserable doubts that had assailed him.
“Sir, I wish it known that I hold the writer and his threats in contempt; if I have given offense it is to an element I shall never seek to conciliate.” Mr. Saul was clearly divided between his admiration for the judge's courage and fear for his safety. “One thing is proven, sir,” the judge went on; “the man who murdered that poor boy is in our midst; that point can no longer be disputed. Now, where are their fine-spun theories as to how he crossed to the Arkansas coast? What does their mass of speculation and conjecture amount to in the face of this?” He breathed deep. “My God, sir, the murderer may be the very next man you pass the time of day with!” Mr. Saul shivered uncomfortably. “And the case in the hands of that pin-headed fool, Betts!” The judge laughed derisively as he bowed himself out. He left it with Mr. Saul to disseminate the news. The judge strutted home with his hat cocked over one eye, and his chest expanded to such limits that it menaced all his waistcoat buttons. Perhaps he was under observation. Ah, let the cutthroats look their full at him!
He established himself in his office. He had scarcely done so when Mr. Betts knocked at the door. The sheriff came direct from Mr. Saul and arrived out of breath, but the letter was not mentioned by the judge. He spoke of the crops, the chance of rain, and the intricacies of county politics. The sheriff withdrew mystified, wondering why it was he had not felt at liberty to broach the subject which was uppermost in his mind. His place was taken by Mr. Pegloe, and on the heels of the tavern-keeper came Mr. Bowen. Judge Price received them with condescension, but back of the condescension was an air of reserve that did not invite questions. The judge discussed the extension of the national roads with Mr. Pegloe, and the religion of the Persian fire-worshipers with Mr. Bowen; he permitted never a pause and they retired as the sheriff had done without sight of the letter.
The judge's office became a perfect Mecca for the idle and the curious, and while he overflowed with high-bred courtesy he had never seemed so unapproachable—never so remote from matters of local and contemporary interest.
“Why don't you show 'em the letter?” demanded Mr. Mahaffy, when they were alone. “Can't you see they are suffering for a sight of it?”
“All in good time, Solomon.” He became thoughtful. “Solomon, I am thinking of offering a reward for any information that will lead to the discovery of my anonymous correspondent,” he at length observed with a finely casual air, as if the idea had just occurred to him, and had not been seething in his brain all day.
“There you go, Price—” began Mahaffy.
“Solomon, this is no time for me to hang back. I shall offer a reward of five thousand dollars for this information.” The judge's tone was resolute. “Yes, sir, I shall make the figure commensurate with the poignant grief I feel. He was my friend and client—” The moisture gathered in his eyes.
“I should think that fifty dollars was nearer to being your figure,” suggested the cautious Mahaffy.