“By Jove!  Good thing the judge didn’t understand.  The bloody fool would have spoiled all my fine work.  He would have got a life term instead of fourteen years.  He’s got enough, though, poor chap.  I wish to Heaven the other fellow had got it.”

As the prisoner turned with the officer to leave the dock, a wild sobbing fell upon his ear.  It was Paulina.  Kalmar turned to the judge.

“Is it permitted that I see my children before—­before I depart?”

“Certainly,” said the judge quickly.  “Your wife and children and your friends may visit you at a convenient hour to-morrow.”

Kalmar bowed with grave courtesy and walked away.

Beside the sobbing Paulina sat the children, pale and bewildered.

“Where is my father going?” asked the boy in Russian.

“Alas! alas!  We shall see him no more!” sobbed Paulina.

Quickly the boy’s voice rang out, shrill with grief and terror, “Father! father!  Come back!”

The prisoner, who was just disappearing through the door, stopped, turned about, his pale face convulsed with a sudden agony.  He took a step toward his son, who had run toward the bar after him.

“My son, be brave,” he said in a voice audible throughout the room.  “Be brave.  I shall see you to-morrow.”

He waved his hand toward his son, turned again and passed out with the officer.

Through the staring crowd came a little lady with white hair and a face pale and chastened into sweetness.

“Let me come with you,” she said to Paulina, while the tears coursed down her cheeks.

The Galician woman understood not a word, but the touch upon her arm, the tone in the voice, the flowing tears were a language she could understand.  Paulina raised her dull, tear-dimmed eyes, and for a brief moment gazed into the pale face above her, then without further word rose and, followed by her children, accompanied the little lady from the room, the crowd making respectful way before the pathetic group.

“Say, O’Hara, there are still angels going about,” said young Dr. Wright, following the group with his eyes.

“Be Hivin!” replied the tender-hearted Irishman, his eyes suddenly dim, “there’s wan annyway, and Margaret French is the first two letters of her name.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE PRICE OF VENGEANCE

Dr. Wright’s telephone rang early next morning.  The doctor was prompt to respond.  His practice had not yet reached the stage that rendered the telephone a burden.  His young wife stood beside him, listening with eager hope in her wide-open brown eyes.

“Yes,” said the doctor.  “Oh, it’s you.  Delighted to hear your ring.”  “No, not so terribly.  The rush doesn’t begin till later in the day.”  “Not at all.  What can I do for you?” “Certainly, delighted.”  “What?  Right away?” “Well, say within an hour.”