arched entrance. From the
steps one could look down the street at the station and the other
buildings squatting in the sunlight, dingy with the dust of many dry
days. Except for the cowponies and the buckboard and the prairie
schooner there was a total absence of life or movement, offering a
striking contrast to the bustling cities to which the young man had been
accustomed.

He walked rapidly down the board walk, entered the courthouse, and
paused before a door upon which appeared the legend: "United States
District Court. J. Blackstone Graney." The young man set his suit cases
down, mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, making a wry face at
the dust that appeared on the linen after his use of it, and then
knocked lightly, but firmly, on the door. A voice inside immediately
admonished him to "come in." The young man smiled with satisfaction,
turned the knob and opened the door, standing on the threshold. A man
seated at one of the windows of the room was gazing steadily out at the
vast, dry, sun-scorched country. He turned at the young man's entrance
and got slowly to his feet, apparently waiting for the visitor to speak.
He was a short man, not heavily, but stockily built, giving a clear
impression of stolidity. Yet there was a certain gleam in his eyes that
gave the lie to this impression, a gleam that warned of an active,
analytical mind. Judicial dignity lurked all over him.

The young man bowed respectfully. "Are you Judge Graney?" he questioned.

The judge nodded and the young man smiled slightly. "I am Kent Hollis,"
he said.

The judge had been approaching a big table that stood in the center of
the room and at the young man's words he took a second glance at him,
but did not hesitate in his walk toward the table. However, he smiled
when he reached it, sinking into a chair and motioning the young man to
another.

"I have been expecting you," he said after he had become seated. "Take a
chair." He waited until the young man had drawn a chair opposite him and
then he leaned over the table and stretched out his hand in greeting.
"I'm glad to see you," he continued cordially. He held the young man's
hand for an instant, peering steadily into the latter's unwavering eyes,
apparently making a mental estimate of him. Then he dropped the hand and
sat back, a half smile on his face. "You look like your father," he
said.

The young man's face clouded. "Poor dad," he said slowly.

For a moment there was a sile