The Judge’s wife had come into the hall. Hosmer slowly shut the door,
and he rubbed his hands as though they were soiled. There was trouble in
his eyes, where the anger died.
Mary Hosmer touched his arm; asked softly: “What is it, Bob?”
He looked down at her; slowly shook his head. “Trouble, Mary,” he said
frankly. “He wanted to beg, or buy, or steal the Furnace case. They’ve
raked up those old affairs. The _Chronicle_ will print the whole
business in the morning. He’s gone to release the story now. I guess
folks will walk right by and never see us, tomorrow, Mary.”
Comprehension came swiftly into her eyes; she cried rebelliously:
“You’ve lived those old tales down, Bob!” He shook his head. “Anyway,”
she told him, “I’m glad you--kicked him out as you did.”
The Judge nodded. Then a slow smile crept into his eyes. “Matter of
fact, Mary,” he said, “this affair has its funny side.”
“Funny?” she echoed.
“Yeah.”
“Why....”
“I’d written my decision before he came upstairs,” he explained. “I’d
already decided the way he wanted me to.”