Slowly but inexorably the full significance of Marshall’s words dawned on the judge.  He had risen from his chair dumb and terror-stricken.  For a moment they stood without speech, each staring into the other’s face.  Presently the judge stole to Marshall’s side.

“Tell me that I misunderstand you!” he whispered in entreaty, resting a tremulous hand on his son’s arm.

But the latter was bitterly resentful.  His father had forced this confession, from him, he had given him no choice!

“Why should I tell you that now?” he asked, as he roughly shook off his father’s hand.

“Tell me I misunderstand you!” repeated the judge, in a tone of abject entreaty.

“It’s too late!” said Marshall, his voice a mere whisper between parched lips.  He tossed up his arms in a gesture that betokened his utter weariness of soul.  “My God, how I’ve suffered!” he said chokingly, and his eyes were wet with the sudden anguish of self-pity.

“Marshall!”

The judge spoke in protest of his words.  Marshall turned abruptly from him and crossed the room.  The spirit of his fierce resentment was dying within him, for, after all, what did it signify how his father learned his secret!

From the parlor there still came the strains of light music; these and Marshall’s echoing tread as he strode to and fro, filled in the ghastly silence that succeeded.  Then at length he paused before his father, and once more they looked deep into each other’s eyes, and the little space between was for both as an open grave filled with dead things—­hopes, ambitions, future days and months and years—­days and months and years when they should be for ever mindful of his crime!  For henceforth they were to dwell in the chill of this direful shadow that would tower above all the concerns of life whether great or small; that would add despair to every sorrow, and take the very soul and substance from every joy.

The judge dropped into his chair, but his wavering glance still searched his son’s face for some sign that should tell him, not what he already knew but what he hoped might be,—­that Marshall was either drunk or crazed; but he only saw there the reflection of his own terror.  He buried his head in his hands and bitter age-worn sobs shook his bent shoulders.  After a moment of sullen waiting for him to recover, Marshall approached and touched him on the arm.

“Father—­” he whispered gently.

The judge glanced up.

“It’s a lie, Marshall!”

But Marshall only stared at him until the judge again covered his face with his hands.

When he glanced up a few moments later, he found himself alone.  Marshall had stolen from the room.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SHRIMPLIN TO THE RESCUE

Beyond the flats and the railroad tracks and over across the new high, iron bridge, was a low-lying region much affected by the drivers of dump-carts, whose activity was visibly attested by the cinders, the ashes, the tin cans, the staved-in barrels and the lidless boxes that everywhere met the eye.