The immediate result of Norton’s communication had been to send the judge up the street to the courthouse.  He would show his client that he could be punctual and painstaking.  He should have his abstract of title without delay; moreover, he had in mind a scholarly effort entirely worthy of himself.  The dull facts should be illuminated with an occasional striking phrase.  He considered that it would doubtless be of interest to Mr. Norton, in this connection, to know something, too, of mediaeval land tenure, ancient Roman and modern English.  He proposed artfully to pander to his client’s literary tastes—­assuming that he had such tastes.  But above all, this abstract must be entirely explanatory of himself, since its final purpose was to remove whatever doubts his mere appearance might have bred in Mr. Norton’s mind.

“If my pocket could just be brought to stand the strain of new clothes before the next sitting of court, I might reasonably hope for a share of the pickings,” thought the judge.

Entering the court-house, he found himself in a narrow hall.  On his right was the jury-room, and on his left the county clerk’s office, stuffy little holes, each lighted by a single window.  Beyond, and occupying the full width of the building, was the court-room, with its hard, wooden benches and its staring white walls.  Advancing to the door, which stood open, the judge surveyed the room with the greatest possible satisfaction.  He could fancy it echoing to that eloquence of which he felt himself to be the master.  He would show the world, yet, what was in him, and especially Solomon Mahaffy, who clearly had not taken his measure.

Turning away from the agreeable picture his mind had conjured up, he entered the county clerk’s office.  He was already known to this official, whose name was Saul, and he now greeted him with a pleasant air of patronage.  Mr. Saul removed his feet from the top of his desk and motioned his visitor to a chair; at the same time he hospitably thrust forward a square box filled with sawdust.  It was plain he labored under the impression that the judge’s call was of an unprofessional character.

“A little matter of business brings me here, sir,” began the judge, with a swelling chest and mellow accents.  “No, sir, I’ll not be seated—­another time I’ll share your leisure if I may—­now I am in some haste to look up a title for my client, Mr. Norton.”

“What Norton?” asked Mr. Saul, when he had somewhat recovered from the effect of this announcement.

“Mr. Charles Norton, of Thicket Point,” said the judge.

“I reckon you mean that timber tract of old Joe Quaid’s.”  Mr. Saul viewed the judge’s ruinous exterior with a glance of respectful awe, for clearly a man who could triumph over such a handicap must possess uncommon merit of some sort.  “So you’re looking after Charley Norton’s business for him, are you?” he added.

“He’s a client of mine.  We have mutual friends, sir—­I refer to Miss Malroy,” the judge vouchsafed to explain.