“Price, you have a streak of real greatness!” he declared.

Before the day was over it was generally believed that the judge was wearing his gag with humility; interest in him declined, still the public would have been grateful for a sight of that letter.

“Shucks, he’s nothing but an old windbag!” said Mr. Pegloe to a group of loungers gathered before his tavern in the early evening.

As he spoke, the judge’s door opened and that gentleman appeared on his threshold with a lighted candle in each hand.  Glancing neither to the right nor the left he passed out and up the street.  Not a breath of wind was blowing and the flames of the two candles burnt clear and strong, lighting up his stately advance.

At the corner of the court-house green stood a row of locust hitching posts.  Two of these the judge decorated with his candles, next he measured off fifteen paces, strides as liberal as he could make them without sacrifice to his dignity; he scored a deep line in the dust with the heel of his boot, toed it squarely, and drew himself up to his fullest height.  His right hand was seen to disappear under the frayed tails of his coat, it reappeared and was raised with a movement quicker than the eye could follow and a pistol shot rang out.  One of the candles was neatly snuffed.

The judge allowed himself a covert glance in the direction of the loungers before the tavern.  He was aware that a larger audience was assembling.  A slight smile relaxed the firm set of his lips.  The remaining candle sputtered feebly.  The judge walked to the post and cleared the wick from tallow with his thumb-nail.  There was no haste in any of his movements; his was the deliberation of conscious efficiency.  Resuming his former station back of the line he had drawn in the dusty road he permitted his eye to gauge the distance afresh, then his hand was seen to pass deftly to his left hip pocket, the long barrel of the rifle pistol was leveled, the piece cracked, and the candle’s yellow flame vanished.

The judge pocketed his pistol, walked down the street, and with never a glance toward the tavern reentered his house.

The next morning it was discovered that sometime during the night the judge had tacked his anonymous communication on the court-house door; just below it was another sheet of paper covered with bold script: 

“To whom it may concern:  Judge Slocum Price assumes that the above was intended for him since he found it under his office door on the morning of the twenty-fifth inst.

“Judge Price begs leave to state it as his unqualified conviction that the writer is a coward and a cur, and offers a reward of five thousand dollars for any information that will lead to his identification.

“Judge Price has stated that he would conduct an intelligently directed investigation of the Norton murder mystery without remuneration.  He has the honor to assure his friends that he is still willing to do so; however, he takes this opportunity to warn the public that each day’s delay is a matter of the utmost gravity.