It was with both attitudes that he himself answered Rowan’s ring; he opened the door half warmly and half coldly.  In former years when working up his great cases involving life and death, it had been an occasional custom of his to receive his clients, if they were socially his friends, not in his private office, but in his rooms; it was part of his nature to show them at such crises his unshaken trust in their characters.  He received Rowan in his rooms now.  It was a clear day; the rooms had large windows; and the light streaming in took from them all the comfort which they acquired under gaslight:  the carpets were faded, the rugs were worn out and lay in the wrong places.  It was seen to be a desolate place for a desolated life.

“How are you, Rowan?” he said, speaking as though he had seen him the day before, and taking no note of changes in his appearance.  Without further words he led the way into his sitting room and seated himself in his leather chair.

“Will you smoke?”

They had often smoked as they sat thus when business was before them, or if no business, questions to be intimately discussed about life and character and good and bad.  Rowan did not heed the invitation, and the Judge lighted a cigar for himself.  He was a long time in lighting it, and burned two or three matches at the end of it after it was lighted, keeping a cloud of smoke before his eyes and keeping his eyes closed.  When the smoke rose and he lay back in his chair, he looked across at the young man with the eyes of an old lawyer who had drawn the truth out of the breast of many a criminal by no other command than their manly light.  Rowan sat before him without an effort at composure.  There was something about him that suggested a young officer out of uniform, come home with a browned face to try to get himself court-martialled.  He spoke first: 

“I have had Isabel’s letter, and I have come to tell you.”

“I need not say to you, tell me the whole truth.”

“No, you need not say that to me.  I should have told you long ago, if it had been a duty.  But it was not a duty.  You had not the right to know; there was no reason why you should know.  This was a matter which concerned only the woman whom I was to marry.”  His manner had the firm and quiet courtesy that was his birthright.

A little after dark, Rowan emerged into the street.  His carriage was waiting for him and he entered it and went home.  Some minutes later, Judge Morris came down and walked to the Hardages’.  He rang and asked for Professor Hardage and waited for him on the door-step.  When Professor Hardage appeared, he said to him very solemnly:  “Get your hat.”

The two men walked away, the Judge directing their course toward the edge of the town.  “Let us get to a quiet place,” he said, “where we can talk without being overheard.”  It was a pleasant summer night and the moon was shining, and they stepped off the sidewalk and took the middle of the pike.  The Judge spoke at last, looking straight ahead.