If the truth be told, that voice and that touch threw the Honourable Hilary’s heart out of beat.  Many days he had been schooling himself for this occasion:  this very afternoon he had determined his course of action, which emphatically did not include a fatted calf.  And now surged up a dryad-like memory which had troubled him many a wakeful night, of startled, appealing eyes that sought his in vain, and of the son she had left him flinging himself into his arms in the face of chastisement.  For the moment Hilary Vane, under this traitorous influence, was unable to speak.  But he let the hand rest on his shoulder, and at length was able to pronounce, in a shamefully shaky voice, the name of his son.  Whereupon Austen seized him by the other shoulder and turned him round and looked into his face.

“The same old Judge,” he said.

But Hilary was startled, even as Euphrasia had been.  Was this strange, bronzed, quietly humorous young man his son?  Hilary even had to raise his eyes a little; he had forgotten how tall Austen was.  Strange emotions, unbidden and unwelcome, ran riot in his breast; and Hilary Vane, who made no slips before legislative committees or supreme courts, actually found himself saying:—­“Euphrasia’s got your room ready.”

“It’s good of you to take me in, Judge,” said Austen, patting his shoulder.  And then he began, quite naturally to unbuckle the breechings and loose the traces, which he did with such deftness and celerity that he had the horse unharnessed and in the stall in a twinkling, and had hauled the buggy through the stable door, the Honourable Hilary watching him the while.  He was troubled, but for the life of him could find no adequate words, who usually had the dictionary at his disposal.

“Didn’t write me why you came home,” said the Honourable Hilary, as his son washed his hands at the spigot.

“Didn’t I?  Well, the truth was I wanted to see you again, Judge.”

His father grunted, not with absolute displeasure, but suspiciously.

“How about Blodgett?” he asked.

“Blodgett?  Have you heard about that?  Who told you?”

“Never mind.  You didn’t.  Nothing in your letter about it.”

“It wasn’t worth mentioning,” replied Austen.  “Tyner and the boys liked it pretty well, but I didn’t think you’d be interested.  It was a local affair.”

“Not interested!  Not worth mentioning!” exclaimed the Honourable Hilary, outraged to discover that his son was modestly deprecating an achievement instead of defending a crime.  “Godfrey! murder ain’t worth mentioning, I presume.”

“Not when it isn’t successful,” said Austen.  “If Blodgett had succeeded, I guess you’d have heard of it before you did.”

“Do you mean to say this Blodgett tried to kill you?” demanded the Honourable Hilary.

“Yes,” said his son, “and I’ve never understood why he didn’t.  He’s a good deal better shot than I am.”