Impatiently Mr. Thorndike raised his head.  He saw a little, white-haired woman who stared at him.  In her eyes was the same look he had seen in the eyes of men who, at times of panic, fled to him, beseeching, entreating, forcing upon him what was left of the wreck of their fortunes, if only he would save their honor.

“And here come the prisoners,” Andrews whispered.  “See Spear?  Third man from the last.”  A long line, guarded in front and rear, shuffled into the court-room, and, as ordered, ranged themselves against the wall.  Among them were old men and young boys, well dressed, clever-looking rascals, collarless tramps, fierce-eyed aliens, smooth-shaven, thin-lipped Broadwayards—­and Spear.

Spear, his head hanging, with lips white and cheeks ashen, and his eyes heavy with shame.

Mr. Thorndike had risen, and, in farewell, was holding out his hand to Andrews.  He turned, and across the court-room the eyes of the financier and the stenographer met.  At the sight of the great man, Spear flushed crimson, and then his look of despair slowly disappeared; and into his eyes there came incredulously hope and gratitude.  He turned his head suddenly to the wall.

Mr. Thorndike stood irresolute, and then sank back into his chair.

The first man in the line was already at the railing, and the questions put to him by the judge were being repeated to him by the other assistant district attorney and a court attendant.  His muttered answers were in turn repeated to the judge.

“Says he’s married, naturalized citizen, Lutheran Church, die-cutter by profession.”

The probation officer, her hands filled with papers, bustled forward and whispered.

“Mrs. Austin says,” continued the district attorney, “she’s looked into this case, and asks to have the man turned over to her.  He has a wife and three children; has supported them for five years.”

“Is the wife in court?” the judge said.

A thin, washed-out, pretty woman stood up, and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Has this man been a good husband to you, madam?” asked the young judge.

The woman broke into vehement assurances.  No man could have been a better husband.  Would she take him back?  Indeed she would take him back.  She held out her hands as though she would physically drag her husband from the pillory.

[Illustration:  Mr. Thorndike stood irresolute, and then sank back into his chair]

The judge bowed toward the probation officer, and she beckoned the prisoner to her.

Other men followed, and in the fortune of each Mr. Thorndike found himself, to his surprise, taking a personal interest.  It was as good as a play.  It reminded him of the Sicilians he had seen in London in their little sordid tragedies.  Only these actors were appearing in their proper persons in real dramas of a life he did not know, but which appealed to something that had been long untouched, long in