“In your official capacity—­yes; but not here, as host to the poor dog who comes under your roof for shelter.  My rights are sacred.  Even the wild Arab—­”

He paused abruptly.  Over Wayne’s shoulder, through the window still open to the terrace, he saw a figure cross the darkness.  Could his pursuers be waiting outside for their chance to spring on him?  A perceptible fraction of a second went by before he told himself he must have been mistaken.

“Even the wild Arab would think them so,” he concluded, his glance shifting rapidly between the judge and the window open behind him.

“But I’m not a wild Arab,” Wayne replied.  “My first duty is toward my country and its organized society.”

“I don’t think so.  Your first duty is toward the man you know you’ve sentenced wrongly.  Fate has shown you an unusual mercy in giving you a chance to help him.”

“I can be sorry for the sentence and yet feel that I could not have acted otherwise.”

“Then what are you going to do now?”

“What would you expect me to do but hand you back to justice?”

“How?”

There was a suggestion of physical disdain in the tone of the laconic question, as well as in the look he fixed on the neat, middle-aged man doing his best to be cool and collected Wayne glanced over his shoulder toward the telephone on the wall.  Norrie Ford understood and spoke quickly: 

“Yes; you could ring up the police at Greenport, but I could strangle you before you crossed the floor.”

“So you could; but would you?  If you did, should you be any better off?  Should you be as well off as you are now?  As it is, there is a possibility of a miscarriage of justice, of which one day you may get the benefit.  There would be no such possibility then.  You would be tracked down within forty-eight hours.”

“Oh, you needn’t argue; I’ve no intention—­” Once more he paused.  The same shadow had flitted across the dark space outside, this time with a distinct flutter of a white dress.  He could only think it was some one getting help together; and while he went on to finish his sentence in words, all his subconscious faculties were at work, seeking an escape from the trap in which he was taken.

“I’ve no intention of doing violence unless I’m driven to it—­”

“But if you are driven to it—?”

“I’ve a right to defend myself.  Organized society, as you call it, has put me where it has no further claim upon me.  I must fight against it single-handed—­and I’ll do it.  I shall spare neither man nor woman—­nor woman”—­he raised his voice so as to be heard outside—­“who stands in my way.”

He threw back his head and looked defiantly out into the night.  As if in response to this challenge a tall, white figure suddenly emerged from the darkness and stood plainly before him.

It was a girl, whose movements were curiously quick and silent, as she beckoned to him, over the head of the judge, who sat with his back toward her.