"In your official capacity--yes; but not here, as host to the poor dog who
comes under your roof for shelter. My rights are sacred. Even the wild
Arab--"

He paused abruptly. Over Wayne's shoulder, through the window still open
to the terrace, he saw a figure cross the darkness. Could his pursuers be
waiting outside for their chance to spring on him? A perceptible fraction
of a second went by before he told himself he must have been mistaken.

"Even the wild Arab would think them so," he concluded, his glance
shifting rapidly between the judge and the window open behind him.

"But I'm not a wild Arab," Wayne replied. "My first duty is toward my
country and its organized society."

"I don't think so. Your first duty is toward the man you know you've
sentenced wrongly. Fate has shown you an unusual mercy in giving you a
chance to help him."

"I can be sorry for the sentence and yet feel that I could not have acted
otherwise."

"Then what are you going to do now?"

"What would you expect me to do but hand you back to justice?"

"How?"

There was a suggestion of physical disdain in the tone of the laconic
question, as well as in the look he fixed on the neat, middle-aged man