itting she had
virtually refused to help Evans. But Judge Homans, if he remembered,
made no reference to the past.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Now let me see. It must have been O'Bannon tried
that case, wasn't it?" Lydia nodded, and he went on, "Poor O'Bannon! I
miss him very much. He resigned, you know, about the time Mrs. O'Bannon
died."

"He was married?" asked Lydia, and even in her own ears her voice
sounded unnaturally loud.

No, the judge said, it was the old lady, his mother; and he went on
telling Lydia what a fine fellow the former district attorney had
been--a good man and a good lawyer.

"The two are not always combined," the judge said with a chuckle,
feeling something cold in his auditor's attention.

Lydia rose to her feet. She was sorry, she said, that she really must be
going home. The judge found his soft black hat and accompanied her to
her car.

"Don't drive yourself?" he asked.

She shook her head. She would never drive a car again. The judge patted
her hand--told her to come and see him again--let him know how she was
getting on. She promised. She saw that in some way an unbreakable human
bond had been established between them by the fact that she had
committed a crime and he had sentenced her to state's prison for it.

She went home feeling encouraged. Not only had she managed to get him to
agree to enlist O'Bannon's help in the matter of Evans' pardon, but she
herself had supported the mention of O'Bannon's name with something that
was almost calm.

CHAPTER XVII

It was noticeable--though no one noticed it--that a month after Lydia
went to work in Mrs. Galton's organization everyone in her immediate
circle was doing something for released convicts. Bobby, Miss Bennett,
Eleanor, Wiley, all suddenly began to think that the problem of the
criminal was the most important, the most vital, the most interesting
problem in the world. The explanation was simple: A will like Lydia's,
harnessed to a constructive purpose, was far more irresistible than in
the old days when it had been selfish, spasmodic and undisciplined.

She was given a little office, like Miss Galton's, and she was in it
every morning at nine o'clock. Miss Bennett, who had worried all her
life because Lydia led an irregular, aimless, idle existence, now
worried even more because her working hours were long.

"Surely," she protested almost every morning, "Mrs. Galton will not care
if you don't get there until half past n