presence he was aware, and fiercely demanded: "Where are the
wretches who have done this? No single arm could have knocked down
Bela. He has been set upon--beaten with clubs, and--" Here his
thought was caught up by another, and that one so fearsome and
unsettling that bewilderment again followed rage, and with the
look of a haunted spirit, he demanded in a voice made low by awe
and dread of its own sound, "AND WHERE WAS I, WHEN ALL THIS
HAPPENED?"

"You? You were seated there," murmured the little woman, pointing
at the great chair. "You were not--quite--quite yourself," she
softly explained, wondering at her own composure. Then quickly, as
she saw his thoughts revert to the dead friend at his feet, "Bela
was not hurt here. He was down town when it happened; but he
managed to struggle home and gain this place, which he tried to
hold against the men who followed him. He thought you were dead,
you sat there so rigid and so white, and, before he quite gave up,
he asked us all to promise not to let any one enter this room till
your son Oliver came."

Understanding partly, but not yet quite clear in his mind, the
judge sighed, and stooping again, straightened the faithful
negro's limbs. Then, with a sidelong look in her direction, he
felt in one of the pockets of the dead negro's coat, and drawing
out a small key, held it in one hand while he fumbled in his own
for another, which found, he became on the instant his own man
again.

Miss Weeks, seeing the difference in him, and seeing too, that the
doorway was now clear of the wondering, awestruck group which had