rstand." His voice was helpless. He knew that he only half
understood himself.

How long he sat thus puzzling the mystery of his own nature, he never
knew. But presently he became aware that he was not alone. The room was
in only partial darkness, a street lamp filling it with a sickly glow.
He raised his eyes, and for a second time that night, met those of Judge
Wolcott. But they were different. The sharp terror had given place to
heavy pain.

"Hello," said Good, as if this was quite what he had expected.

"Mr. Good, I...." The Judge's voice was a pitiful travesty of its former
masterful assurance. Never before had the Judge been obliged so to
humble himself. "I don't know what I can say--only--I--I...."

"You want mercy," said Good brutally. He marvelled at the phrase. That
was not what he had meant to say. It seemed to come from lips quite
beyond his control.

"Not for myself." The old man's tone was inexpressibly sad, yet not
without a certain dignity. "There are my daughters. I--I--would spare
them."

"Belated, eh--a bit, don't you think?" Again Good was amazed at his
cruelty. He seemed to be in the grasp of devils.

The Judge hung his head. "I don't know what to say," he sighed brokenly.
"I only hoped--"

"That you could come snivelling to me and beg off, for the sake of your
daughters, eh? Well--look here, my friend. You've given us the greatest
scoop of the year." Good's tone was as hard as adamant, though there
were tears in his heart. "To save your daughters from disgrace, you'd
have us give up the thing we live for."

"I know--I know--but is it so much?"

"It's everything. But let that pass. Here's a thing that counts. Has it
occurred to you what would happen to _me_ if I listened to you?"

"To you?"

"Yes. If I kill this story, my work here ends. By the standards of those
about me I'd be a traitor. I've preached truth without fear or
favour--you understand--without fear or favour. I've fought pull with
everything I've got. And now you'd have me ... man, it's a test--can't
you see--it's a test!" Good's voice changed suddenly. From the court,
passing sentence, he had become the condemned, pleading for clemency.

The old man drew himself up. "I see. I did not--wholly understand. It
is--inevitable."

There was indescribable pathos in the resignation with which he spoke.
"It is inevitable," he repeated softly. Then he turned to go.

"Why don't you see Wynrod?" asked Good with sudden harshness.