An hour later, Martin Pike, looking forth from the Mansion, saw a man open the gate, and, passing between the unemotional deer, rapidly approach the house.  He was a thin young fellow, very well dressed in dark gray, his hair prematurely somewhat silvered, his face prematurely somewhat lined, and his hat covered a scar such as might have been caused by a blow from a blunt instrument in the nature of a poker.

He did not reach the door, nor was there necessity for him to ring, for, before he had set foot on the lowest step, the Judge had hastened to meet him.  Not, however, with any fulsomely hospitable intent; his hand and arm were raised to execute one of his Olympian gestures, of the kind which had obliterated the young man upon a certain by-gone morning.

Louden looked up calmly at the big figure towering above him.

“It won’t do, Judge,” he said; that was all, but there was a significance in his manner and a certainty in his voice which caused the uplifted hand to drop limply; while the look of apprehension which of late had grown more and more to be Martin Pike’s habitual expression deepened into something close upon mortal anxiety.

“Have you any business to set foot upon my property?” he demanded.

“Yes,” answered Joe.  “That’s why I came.”

“What business have you got with me?”

“Enough to satisfy you, I think.  But there’s one thing I don’t want to do” ­Joe glanced at the open door ­“and that is to talk about it here ­for your own sake and because I think Miss Tabor should be present.  I called to ask you to come to her house at eight o’clock to-night.”

“You did!” Martin Pike spoke angrily, but not in the bull-bass of yore; and he kept his voice down, glancing about him nervously as though he feared that his wife or Mamie might hear.  “My accounts with her estate are closed,” he said, harshly.  “If she wants anything, let her come here.”

Joe shook his head.  “No.  You must be there at eight o’clock.”

The Judge’s choler got the better of his uneasiness.  “You’re a pretty one to come ordering me around!” he broke out.  “You slanderer, do you suppose I haven’t heard how you’re going about traducing me, undermining my character in this community, spreading scandals that I am the real owner of Beaver Beach ­”

“It can easily be proved, Judge,” Joe interrupted, quietly, “though you’re wrong:  I haven’t been telling people.  I haven’t needed to ­even if I’d wished.  Once a thing like that gets out you can’t stop it ­ever!  That isn’t all:  to my knowledge you own other property worse than the Beach; I know that you own half of the worst dens in the town:  profitable investments, too.  You bought them very gradually and craftily, only showing the deeds to those in charge ­as you did to Mike Sheehan, and not recording them.  Sheehan’s betrayal of you gave me the key; I know most of the poor creatures who are your tenants, too, you see, and that gave me an advantage because they have some confidence in me.  My investigations have been almost as quiet and careful as your purchases.”

“You damned blackmailer!” The Judge bent upon him a fierce, inquiring scrutiny in which, oddly enough, there was a kind of haggard hopefulness.  “And out of such stories,” he sneered, “you are going to try to make political capital against the Tocsin, are you?”

“No,” said Joe.  “It was necessary in the interests of my client for me to know pretty thoroughly just what property you own, and I think I do.  These pieces I’ve mentioned are about all you have not mortgaged.  You couldn’t do that without exposure, and you’ve kept a controlling interest in the Tocsin clear, too ­for the sake of its influence, I suppose.  Now, do you want to hear any more, or will you agree to meet me at Miss Tabor’s this evening?”

Whatever the look of hopefulness had signified, it fled from Pike’s face during this speech, but he asked with some show of contempt, “Do you think it likely?”

“Very well,” said Joe, “if you want me to speak here.”  And he came a little closer to him.  “You bought a big block of Granger Gas for Roger Tabor,” he began, in a low voice.  “Before his death you sold everything he had, except the old house, put it all into cash for him, and bought that stock; you signed the check as his attorney-in-fact, and it came back to you through the Washington National, where Norbert Flitcroft handled it.  He has a good memory, and when he told me what he knew, I had him to do some tracing; did a little myself, also.  Judge Pike, I must tell you that you stand in danger of the law.  You were the custodian of that stock for Roger Tabor; it was transferred in blank; though I think you meant to be ‘legal’ at that time, and that was merely for convenience in case Roger had wished you to sell it for him.  But just after his death you found yourself saddled with distillery stock, which was going bad on your hands.  Other speculations of yours were failing at the same time; you had to have money ­you filed your report as administrator, crediting Miss Tabor with your own stock which you knew was going to the wall, and transferred hers to yourself.  Then you sold it because you needed ready money.  You used her fortune to save yourself ­but you were horribly afraid!  No matter how rotten your transactions had been, you had always kept inside the law; and now that you had gone outside of it, you were frightened.  You didn’t dare come flat out to Miss Tabor with the statement that her fortune had gone; it had been in your charge all the time and things might look ugly.  So you put it off, perhaps from day to day.  You didn’t dare tell her until you were forced to, and to avoid the confession you sent her the income which was rightfully hers.  That was your great weakness.”

Joe had spoken with great rapidity, though keeping his voice low, and he lowered it again, as he continued:  “Judge Pike, what chance have you to be believed in court when you swear that you sent her twenty thousand dollars out of the goodness of your heart?  Do you think she believed you?  It was the very proof to her that you had robbed her.  For she knew you!  Do you want to hear more now?  Do you think this is a good place for it?  Do you wish me to go over the details of each step I have taken against you, to land you at the bar where this poor fellow your paper is hounding stands to-day?”

The Judge essayed to answer, and could not.  He lifted his hand uncertainly and dropped it, while a thick dew gathered on his temples.  Inarticulate sounds came from between his teeth.

“You will come?” said Joe.

Martin Pike bent his head dazedly; and at that the other turned quickly from him and went away without looking back.

Ariel was in the studio, half an hour later, when Joe was announced by the smiling Mr. Warden.  Ladew was with her, though upon the point of taking his leave, and Joe marked (with a sinking heart) that the young minister’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes very bright.

“It was a magnificent thing you did, Mr. Louden,” he said, offering his hand heartily; “I saw it, and it was even finer in one way than it was plucky.  It somehow straightened things out with such perfect good nature; it made those people feel that what they were doing was ridiculous.”

“So it was,” said Joe.

“Few, under the circumstances, could have acted as if they thought so!  And I hope you’ll let me call upon you, Mr. Louden.”

“I hope you will,” he answered; and then, when the minister had departed, stood looking after him with sad eyes, in which there dwelt obscure meditations.  Ladew’s word of farewell had covered a deep look at Ariel, which was not to be mistaken by Joseph Louden for anything other than what it was:  the clergyman’s secret was an open one, and Joe saw that he was as frank and manly in love as in all other things.  “He’s a good fellow,” he said at last, sighing.  “A good man.”

Ariel agreed.  “And he said more to me than he did to you.”

“Yes, I think it probable,” Joe smiled sorrowfully.

“About you, I mean.”  He had time to fear that her look admitted confusion before she proceeded:  “He said he had never seen anything so fine as your coming down those steps.  Ah, he was right!  But it was harder for me to watch you, I think, than for you to do it, Joe.  I was so horribly afraid ­and the crowd between us ­if we could have got near you ­but we couldn’t ­we ­”

She faltered, and pressed her hand close upon her eyes.

“We?” asked Joe, slowly.  “You mean you and Mr. Ladew?”

“Yes, he was there; but I mean” ­her voice ran into a little laugh with a beatific quaver in it ­“I mean Colonel Flitcroft and Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Buckalew, too ­we were hemmed in together when Mr. Ladew found us ­and, oh, Joe, when that cowardly rush started toward you, those three ­I’ve heard wonderful things in Paris and Naples, cabmen quarrelling and disappointed beggars ­but never anything like them to-day ­”

“You mean they were profane?”

“Oh, magnificently ­and with such inventiveness!  All three begged my pardon afterwards.  I didn’t grant it ­I blessed them!”

“Did they beg Mr. Ladew’s pardon?”

“Ah, Joe!” she reproached him.  “He isn’t a prig.  And he’s had to fight some things that you of all men ought to understand.  He’s only been here a few months, but he told me that Judge Pike has been against him from the start.  It seems that Mr. Ladew is too liberal in his views.  And he told me that if it were not for Judge Pike’s losing influence in the church on account of the Beaver Beach story, the Judge would probably have been able to force him to resign; but now he will stay.”

“He wishes to stay, doesn’t he?”

“Very much, I think.  And, Joe,” she continued, thoughtfully, “I want you to do something for me.  I want you to go to church with me next Sunday.”

“To hear Mr. Ladew?”

“Yes.  I wouldn’t ask except for that.”

“Very well,” he consented, with averted eyes.  “I’ll go.”

Her face was radiant with the smile she gave him.  “It will make me very happy,” she said.

He bent his head and fumbled over some papers he had taken from his pocket.  “Will you listen to these memoranda?  We have a great deal to go over before eight o’clock.”

Judge Pike stood for a long while where Joe had left him, staring out at the street, apparently.  Really he saw nothing.  Undoubtedly an image of blurring foliage, cast-iron, cement, and turf, with sunshine smeared over all, flickered upon the retinas of his eyes; but the brain did not accept the picture from the optic nerve.  Martin Pike was busy with other visions.  Joe Louden had followed him back to his hidden deeds and had read them aloud to him as Gabriel would read them on Judgment-day.  Perhaps this was the Judgment-day.

Pike had taken charge of Roger Tabor’s affairs because the commissions as agent were not too inconsiderable to be neglected.  To make the task simpler, he had sold, as time went on, the various properties of the estate, gradually converting all of them into cash.  Then, the opportunity offering, he bought a stock which paid excellent dividends, had it transferred in blank, because if it should prove to Roger’s advantage to sell it, his agent could do so without any formal delays between Paris and Canaan.  At least, that is what the Judge had told himself at the time, though it may be that some lurking whisperer in his soul had hinted that it might be well to preserve the great amount of cash in hand, and Roger’s stock was practically that.  Then came the evil days.  Laboriously, he had built up a name for conservatism which most of the town accepted, but secretly he had always been a gambler:  Wall Street was his goal; to adventure there, as one of the great single-eyed Cyclopean man-eaters, his fond ambition; and he had conceived the distillery trust as a means to attain it; but the structure tumbled about his ears; other edifices of his crumbled at the same time; he found himself beset, his solvency endangered, and there was the Tabor stock, quite as good as gold; Roger had just died, and it was enough to save him. ­Save?  That was a strange way to be remembering it to-day, when Fate grinned at him out of a dreadful mask contorted like the face of Norbert Flitcroft.

Martin Pike knew himself for a fool.  What chance had he, though he destroyed the check a thousand times over, to escape the records by which the coil of modern trade duplicates and quadruplicates each slip of scribbled paper?  What chance had he against the memories of men?  Would the man of whom he had bought, forget that the check was signed by Roger’s agent?  Had the bank-clerk forgotten?  Thrice fool, Martin Pike, to dream that in a town like Canaan, Norbert or any of his kind could touch an order for so great a sum and forget it!  But Martin Pike had not dreamed that; had dreamed nothing.  When failure confronted him his mind refused to consider anything but his vital need at the time, and he had supplied that need.  And now he grew busy with the future:  he saw first the civil suit for restitution, pressed with the ferocity and cunning of one who intended to satisfy a grudge of years; then, perhaps, a criminal prosecution....  But he would fight it!  Did they think that such a man was to be overthrown by a breath of air?  By a girl, a bank-clerk, and a shyster lawyer?  They would find their case difficult to prove in court.  He did not believe they could prove it.  They would be discredited for the attempt upon him and he would win clear; these Beaver Beach scandals would die of inertia presently; there would be a lucky trick in wheat, and Martin Pike would be Martin Pike once more; reinstated, dictator of church, politics, business; all those things which were the breath of his life restored.  He would show this pitiful pack what manner of man they hounded!  Norbert Flitcroft....

The Judge put his big hand up to his eyes and rubbed them.  Curious mechanisms the eyes....  That deer in line with the vision ­not a zebra?  A zebra after all these years?  And yet ... curious, indeed, the eyes! ... a zebra....  Who ever heard of a deer with stripes?  The big hand rose from the eyes and ran through the hair which he had always worn rather long.  It would seem strange to have it cut very short....  Did they use clippers, perhaps? ...

He started suddenly and realized that his next-door neighbor had passed along the sidewalk with head averted, pretending not to see him.  A few weeks ago the man would not have missed the chance of looking in to bow ­with proper deference, too!  Did he know?  He could not know this!  It must be the Beaver Beach scandal.  It must be.  It could not be this ­not yet!  But it might be.  How many knew?  Louden, Norbert, Ariel ­who else?  And again the deer took on the strange zebra look.

The Judge walked slowly down to the gate; spoke to the man he had employed in Sam Warden’s place, a Scotchman who had begun to refresh the lawn with a garden hose; bowed affably in response to the salutation of the elder Louden, who was passing, bound homeward from the factory, and returned to the house with thoughtful steps.  In the hall he encountered his wife; stopped to speak with her upon various household matters; then entered the library, which was his workroom.  He locked the door; tried it, and shook the handle.  After satisfying himself of its security, he pulled down the window-shades carefully, and, lighting a gas drop-lamp upon his desk, began to fumble with various documents, which he took from a small safe near by.  But his hands were not steady; he dropped the papers, scattering them over the floor, and had great difficulty in picking them up.  He perspired heavily:  whatever he touched became damp, and he continually mopped his forehead with his sleeve.  After a time he gave up the attempt to sort the packets of papers; sank into a chair despairingly, leaving most of them in disorder.  A light tap sounded on the door.

“Martin, it’s supper-time.”

With a great effort he made shift to answer:  “Yes, I know.  You and Mamie go ahead.  I’m too busy to-night.  I don’t want anything.”

A moment before, he had been a pitiful figure, face distraught, hands incoherent, the whole body incoordinate, but if eyes might have rested upon him as he answered his wife they would have seen a strange thing; he sat, apparently steady and collected, his expression cool, his body quiet, poised exactly to the quality of his reply, for the same strange reason that a young girl smiles archly and coquettes to a telephone.

“But, Martin, you oughtn’t to work so hard.  You’ll break down ­”

“No fear of that,” he replied, cheerfully.  “You can leave something on the sideboard for me.”

After another fluttering remonstrance, she went away, and the room was silent again.  His arms rested upon the desk, and his head slowly sank between his elbows.  When he lifted it again the clock on the mantel-piece had tinkled once.  It was half-past seven.  He took a sheet of note-paper from a box before him and began to write, but when he had finished the words, “My dear wife and Mamie,” his fingers shook so violently that he could go no further.  He placed his left hand over the back of his right to steady it, but found the device unavailing:  the pen left mere zigzags on the page, and he dropped it.

He opened a lower drawer of the desk and took out of it a pistol; rose, went to the door, tried it once more, and again was satisfied of his seclusion.  Then he took the weapon in both hands, the handle against his fingers, one thumb against the trigger, and, shaking with nausea, lifted it to the level of his eyes.  His will betrayed him; he could not contract his thumb upon the trigger, and, with a convulsive shiver, he dropped the revolver upon the desk.

He locked the door of the room behind him, crept down the stairs and out of the front-door.  He walked shamblingly, when he reached the street, keeping close to the fences as he went on, now and then touching the pickets with his hands like a feeble old man.

He had always been prompt; it was one of the things of which he had been proud:  in all his life he had never failed to keep a business engagement precisely upon the appointed time, and the Court-house bell clanged eight when Sam Warden opened the door for his old employer to-night.

The two young people looked up gravely from the script-laden table before them as Martin Pike came into the strong lamplight out of the dimness of the hall, where only a taper burned.  He shambled a few limp steps into the room and came to a halt.  Big as he was, his clothes hung upon him loosely, like coverlets upon a collapsed bed; and he seemed but a distorted image of himself, as if (save for the dull and reddened eyes) he had been made of yellowish wax and had been left too long in the sun.  Abject, hopeless, his attitude a confession of ruin and shame, he stood before his judges in such wretchedness that, in comparison, the figure of Happy Fear, facing the court-room through his darkest hour, was one to be envied.

“Well,” he said, brokenly, “what are you going to do?”

Joe Louden looked at him with great intentness for several moments.  Then he rose and came forward.  “Sit down, Judge,” he said.  “It’s all right.  Don’t worry.”