f his life restored. He would show
this pitiful pack what manner of man they hounded! Norbert
Flitcroft....

The Judge put his big hand up to his eyes and rubbed them. Curious
mechanisms the eyes.... That deer in line with the vision--not a zebra?
A zebra after all these years? And yet ... curious, indeed, the eyes!
... a zebra.... Who ever heard of a deer with stripes? The big hand
rose from the eyes and ran through the hair which he had always worn
rather long. It would seem strange to have it cut very short.... Did
they use clippers, perhaps? ...

He started suddenly and realized that his next-door neighbor had passed
along the sidewalk with head averted, pretending not to see him. A few
weeks ago the man would not have missed the chance of looking in to
bow--with proper deference, too! Did he know? He could not know THIS!
It must be the Beaver Beach scandal. It must be. It could not be
THIS--not yet! But it MIGHT be. How many knew? Louden, Norbert,
Ariel--who else? And again the deer took on the strange zebra look.

The Judge walked slowly down to the gate; spoke to the man he had
employed in Sam Warden's place, a Scotchman who had begun to refresh
the lawn with a garden hose; bowed affably in response to the
salutation of the elder Louden, who was passing, bound homeward from
the factory, and returned to the house with thoughtful steps. In the
hall he encountered his wife; stopped to speak with her upon various
household matters; then entered the library, which was his workroom.
He locked the door; tried it, and shook the handle. After satisfying
himself of its security, he pulled down the window-shades carefully,
and, lighting a gas drop-lamp upon his desk, began to fumble with
various documents, which he took from a small safe near by. But his
hands were not steady; he dropped the papers, scattering them over the
floor, and had great difficulty in picking them up. He perspired
heavily: whatever he touched became damp, and he continually mopped his
forehead with his sleeve. After a time he gave up the attempt to sort
the packets of papers; sank into a chair despairingly, leaving most of
them in disorder. A light tap sounded on the door.

"Martin, it's supper-time."

With a great effort he made shift to answer: "Yes, I know. You and
Mamie go ahead. I'm too busy to-night. I don't want anything."

A moment before, he had been a pitiful figure, face distraught, hands
incoherent, the whole bo