se offered good index to the character of William Henderson. Lawyer,
judge, politician and leading citizen--he was the type of these things,
the village Caesar, and knew well enough the tribute due to Caesar.

A few eyes turned from the adequate figure of Judge Henderson to the
loose and shambling form of the man who edged in to the front of the
table. Rumor had it that in the early times, twenty years or more ago,
Judge Henderson had come to that city with a single law book under his
arm as his sole capital in his profession. Old Hod Brooks had made his
own advent in precisely similar fashion, belated much in life by reason
of his having to work his way through school. Since then his life had
been one steady combat, mostly arrayed against Henderson himself.
Perhaps it might have been said that they two from the first were rivals
for the leading place at the local bar, little as Henderson himself now
cared for that. He was well intrenched, and all opponents, such as this
shambling giant with the red beard and nondescript carriage, must attack
in the open.

Judge Blackman coughed ominously once more. "Order in the court!" he
intoned, pounding on the table in front of him.

There was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs. Those standing
seated themselves so far as was possible. Judge Henderson alone stood
for a time in front of the table of Justice Blackman. The afternoon was
very warm, but he represented the full traditions of his profession, for
he appeared in long black coat, white waistcoat, and folded collar, tied
with a narrow white tie. In some way he had the appearance of always
being freshly laundered. His fresh pink cheeks were smooth and clean,
his hands were immaculate as his linen. One might have said that at one
time in his life he had been a handsome man, a fine young man in his
earlier days, and that he still was "well preserved."

Not so much might have been said of old Hod Brooks, who had slumped into
a seat close to Tarbush and his prisoner. That worthy wore an alpaca
coat, a pair of trousers which shrieked of the Golden Eagle Clothing
Store, no waistcoat at all, and it must be confessed, no collar at all,
beyond a limp strip of wilted linen decorated by no cravat whatever.

As he sat now Brooks suddenly cast a keen, curious gaze upon the face of
the young defendant who sat at the left of the city marshal--a gaze
which, passing at length, rested steadily, intently, on the face of
Aurora Lane, w