instrument.

"A line!" he gasped. "I want New York."

He was snapping at his cigarette like a wild thing, and, along with his
perspiration, ashes and sparks were dropping on the rug.

"Excuse me," he said. "I lost my prey!"

"What!" said I.

"Acquittal," said he. "The Judge was too damned conscientious in his
charge to the jury.--Come on, there, New York! Confound you, come on!
I've got to relay a message through to my paper."

"Acquittal?" I asked, trembling like a horse.

"Acquittal," he roared into the instrument. "This is Roddy. Five hours
out. Interview with Dugan, juryman, local plumber. Says strict charge of
judge did it. Prisoner gone down to River Flats with counsel. Drinking
with Fred Magurk in kitchen barroom. Refuses to talk. Rest of story
already gone by telegraph."

He turned around then and grinned as if it hurt him--as if he was
trying to hide some pain. I had lit the lamp and you cannot begin to
know how funny his white face looked under his bright red hair.

"Can I get a drink of water?" he said, choking, and then over he went
face foremost into the morris chair.

I ran into the kitchen and what with the water splashing in the sink, I
did not hear the Judge come in, and the first I knew about his being
there was when I went back into the library. There he stood, with his
tortoise-shell glasses in his long fingers, looking down at Mr. Roddy,
sitting weak and blinking in his chair.

"Sorry, Judge, to faint away like a queen dowager in your library," said
the reporter, with his everlasting American good nature. "But I came in
to use the first telephone I could find. I was a little tired. My name's
Roddy."

"Mr. Roddy," said Judge Colfax, holding out his hand, "I know of you
very well and of your work on this case."

"Too bad!" said Roddy,--"the outcome?"

"I express no opinion," the Judge answered in a weary voice.

"The prisoner lost no time in finding liquor again," said the other. "He
went to a bar before he went to his baby."

This reached the Judge. His eyes snapped. There was a low growling in
his throat.

"Margaret," said he to me, "bring this gentleman some brandy. You will
rest here a while, Mr. Roddy. I suppose you will not leave until the
eleven-thirty train."

"Thank you. I'm played out," said the reporter. "I thank you."

And so it was that, with many a queer thought in my head, I sat in the
kitchen rocker, listening to the mumble of their voices and waiting up
to see