had been arrested for speeding was given the
consideration which belonged to his rank, and the fine was usually
doubled on the assumption that a gentleman could afford it. But this
was different. A Devereux--which was almost the same thing as a
Starkweather--was haled along the highway like a common prisoner. And
if the Devereux hadn't been engaged in that two-for-a-cent, low-class,
revolting business,--and if Aunt Mirabelle hadn't been Aunt
Mirabelle--it couldn't have happened. The spiritual part of him looked
down at the material part, and wondered how Henry Devereux could be so
white-hot with passion, and yet so calm.

What would his friends say now? What would Bob Standish say, and Mr.
Archer and Judge Barklay? And what would Aunt Mirabelle _not_ say?
This was a grim reflection.

During the journey he spoke only once, and that was to say, brusquely,
to his captor: "Court isn't open today, is it?"

"Nope. But we're goin' to a Justice o' the Peace. Might save you a
night in the hoosegow. Can't tell. Orders, anyway."

The Justice of the Peace (or, as he took some pains to inform Henry,
the Most Honourable Court of Special Sessions) was a grizzled
dyspeptic who held forth in the back room of a shoemaker's shop, while
the rabble waited outside, flattening their noses against the
window-glass. The dyspeptic had evidently been coached for the
proceeding; on his desk he had a copy of the ordinance, and as soon as
he had heard the charge, he delivered a lecture which he seemed to
have by heart, and fined Henry twenty-five dollars and costs. Henry
paid the fine, and turning to go, stumbled against two more policemen,
each with his quarry. "Just out of curiosity," said Henry, speaking to
no one in particular, and in a voice which came so faintly to his
ears that he barely heard it, "Just out of idle curiosity, when the
justice gets half the fine, isn't this court open on Sunday for
godless profit, too?" And in the same, enduring haze of unreality, he
paid an additional twenty dollars for contempt, and went out to the
sidewalk.

He emerged as the focus of interest for a large, exuberant crowd of
loiterers. A camera clicked, and Henry saw that the man at the shutter
was one of the _Herald's_ staff photographers. A youthful reporter
caught up with him, and asked him what he had to say for publication.
"Say for publication?" repeated Henry, dully. "Why, you can say--" He
walked half a block before he completed the sentence.