What was back of it--judgment,
criticism, disbelief--what? Or was it the silence of emptiness?
Was Mahaffy dumb merely because he could think of nothing to say,
or did his silence cloak his feelings-and what were his feelings?
Did his meditations outrun his habitually insulting speech as he
bit his under lip and glared at him? The judge always felt
impelled to talk at such times, while Mahaffy, by that silence of
his, seemed to weigh and condemn whatever he said.
The moon had slipped below the horizon. Pleasantville had long
since gone to bed; it was only the judge's window that gave its
light to the blackness of the night. There was a hoofbeat on the
road. It came nearer and nearer, and presently sounded just
beyond the door. Then it ceased, and a voice said:
"Hullo, there!" The judge scrambled to his feet, and taking up
the candle, stepped, or rather staggered, into the yard. Mahaffv
followed him.
"What's wanted?" asked the judge, as he lurched up to horse and
rider, holding his candle aloft. The light showed a tail fellow
mounted on a handsome bay horse. It was Murrell.
"Is there an inn hereabouts?" he asked.
"You'll find one down the road a ways," said Mahaffy. The judge
said nothing. He was staring up at Murrell with drunken gravity.
"Have either of you gentlemen seen a boy go through here to-day?
A boy about ten years old?" Murrell glanced from one to the
other. Mr. Mahaffy's thin lips twisted themselves into a
sarcastic smile.
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