"She won't have me," gurgled Dunham in a whisper. "She's going to wait for you till the last trump, and while she's waiting she says she'll revise Blackstone." 

 The judge did not smile. He suddenly relaxed throughout his slight frame. "That's Martha," he replied, "you haven't made any mistake. And she'd do it. Very capable woman. Very capable woman. Dunham, I want you to understand," he continued, as he rose and straightened himself, "that I respect that lady very highly." 

 "Oh, I do understand," responded Dunham. "She's a bright, observant woman. She found the chairs dusty." He drew in his breath in a noiseless whistle. 

 The little man looked up alertly under his shaggy brows. "They were dusty, I dare say. You cleaned one for her, eh?" 

 "Yes, with my handkerchief. She didn't like it." 

 "Oh, no, she wouldn't like that. You are quite sure there'd be no use in your going back again and trying to find out what she—a—eh?" 

 "Aren't you quite sure?" Dunham stood with his feet apart and a broad grin on his countenance. 

 The judge rose and shook himself. 

 "I've got those papers ready, Dunham. It might be well for you to take them over to the office and register them; and as you pass through you may ask Miss Lacey to step in here." 

 John Dunham composed his countenance, took his hat and the papers, and started on his errand. 

 Entering the outer room, he paused before Miss Lacey to give his message, and she lifted a small paper parcel that lay in her lap. 

 "Don't be worried about your handkerchief," she said. "I'm going to take it home and wash it." 

 "Oh, I beg you won't trouble yourself," exclaimed the young man. 

 "I shall. You soiled it for me." 

 Dunham bit his lip. The query flitted through his mind as to whether Miss Lacey had ever been successfully contradicted. 

 "When Sir Walter Raleigh flung down his coat for a queen to walk upon, history doesn't say that Elizabeth sent it to the dry-cleaners," he remarked. 

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