of
some person ascending the outer stair.

It was a very halting and uncertain step that came this time, one which
seemed to double on each lift of the stair, with an accentuating
tap-tap, as of a stick used in aid. But after a time he sensed its pause
at his door. There was a rap, a faint little rap, although the door
itself was ajar. Judge Henderson discreetly returned to the cabinet his
half-finished glass of whisky and water, and stepped into the other
room.

It was Miss Julia Delafield whom he met.

She was standing, her hand on the knob of the door, as if seeking
support, or rather as though ready for flight. Her eyes were especially
large and luminous now, as always they were when any supreme emotion
governed her. Her cheeks were flushed in that fashion which she never
yet had learned to control. Her smooth brown hair was held tightly back
under her cool summer hat, and the hands resting on her smooth-topped
cane were well gloved. Not ill-looking she was as she stood, stooped a
trifle, bent over a bit.

She was half a-tremble now with the excitement that she felt. To any
chance observer, even at this hour of this Sabbath day, it must have
seemed that here was only a client come with purpose of consultation
with an attorney. To the angels above who looked down on such matters as
this, it must have seemed a pathetic scene, this in which Miss Julia
figured now. To any human being knowing all the facts it must have been
apparent that this call upon Judge Henderson was Miss Julia Delafield's
great adventure.

It _was_ her great adventure--the greatest ever known in all her life;
and she had dared it now only because of two of the strongest emotions
known to a woman's soul. These are two. They both come under a common
name. That name is love.

It was love had brought Miss Julia hither. Love in the first place for
Dieudonne Lane--or was it, really, in the first place, love for him? For
we, who know as much as Aurora Lane knew of Miss Julia's secret--who
once saw her gazing adoringly at a certain framed portrait when she
fancied herself alone--would have known that there was more than one
mansion in the heart of the little lame librarian.

Helpless, resigned--but yet a woman--Miss Julia loved in the first place
as every woman with any touch of normality does love in spite of all.
She had known all these years that her love was hopeless, that it was
wrong, that it was a sin--she classed it as her sin. And her sin