Suddenly a voice roared from out the open transom of the private office, like a cyclone through a gap.
“Mr. Richter!”
“Sir!”
“Who is that?”
“Mr. Brice, sir.”
“Then why in thunder doesn't he come in?”
Mr. Richter opened the private door, and in Stephen walked. The door closed again, and there he was in the dragon's dens face to face with the dragon, who was staring him through and through. The first objects that caught Stephen's attention were the grizzly gray eye brows, which seemed as so much brush to mark the fire of the deep-set battery of the eyes. And that battery, when in action, must have been truly terrible.
The Judge was shaven, save for a shaggy fringe of gray beard around his chin, and the size of his nose was apparent even in the full face.
Stephen felt that no part of him escaped the search of Mr. Whipple's glance. But it was no code or course of conduct that kept him silent. Nor was it fear entirely.
“So you are Appleton Brice's son,” said the Judge, at last. His tone was not quite so gruff as it might have been.