of Mr. Boutts's
ecstatic visions of Rosewater with a great hotel in the style of the old
Missions, and an electric railway. (Mr. Boutts, by-the-way, never
elevated his feet to the railing of the stove, but always sat on the
edge of his chair, a hand on either knee.) He took the train impulsively
to San Francisco, one afternoon, and talked of reinforced concrete with
his contractor, and San Francisco politics with Hofer. He even called
upon several young ladies, who interested him less than ever, and
returned to Rosewater at the end of four days with a sense of duties
neglected and a slip in his self-mastery. This put him in such a bad
humor that he directed his Asiatic to refuse him to the members of his
informal Club, and wished he were back in San Francisco doing the town
with Stone.

III

He was glowering into the open door of the stove and wondering why on
earth he had not remained in town over Sunday at least, when he became
aware that his noiseless Jap was standing at his elbow.

"What is it?" he demanded, testily. "I wish you would get a pair of
creaky boots."

"A gentleman," replied the impervious Oriental.

"I told you I would not see anybody."

"But he has a card." It was not often that the cool even tones of Imura
Kisabura Hinomoto fluctuated, but Gwynne detected a faint accent of
respect. Somewhat surprised himself, he glanced at the card. It bore the
name of one of the judges of one of the benches provided for by the
constitutions of both nation and State. He had a summer home on the
mountain opposite and relatives in Rosewater, so there was nothing
remarkable in his being in the little town on a rainy winter Sunday.
Nevertheless, Gwynne's instinct of caution, more active than usual
during the past year, stirred sharply.

"Show him in," he said. "And bring the whiskey--both Rye and Scotch."

This was the most perfect specimen of the bluff, hearty, breezy, almost
ingenuous Westerner that Gwynne had encountered. The judge, who had been
relieved of his hat and overcoat by the admirable Imura, advanced with
both hands outstretched, and Gwynne could do no less than surrender
his, although he had never fancied any one less. The judge was a big man
with a round jolly face, set with a sensual mouth, a pendulous nose, and
merry twinkling eyes. Although possibly no more than fifty-five years of
age, the baldness of his head had amplified the common noble domelike
American brow: behind which Gwynne