AT HIS OWN DOOR Judge Langham sat in his library before a brisk wood fire with the day's papers in a heap on the floor beside him.

In repose, the one dominant expression of the judge's face was pride, an austere pride, which manifested itself even in the most casual intercourse.

Yet no man in Mount Hope combined fewer intimacies with a wider confidence, and his many years of public life had but augmented the universal respect in which he was held.
Now in the ruddy light of his own hearth, but quite divorced from any sentiment or sympathy, the judge was considering the case of John North.
His mind in all its operations was singularly clear and dispassionate; a judicial calm, as though born to the bench, was habitual to him.

It was nothing that his acquaintance with John North dated back to the day John North first donned knee-breeches.
He shaded his face with his hand.

In the long procession of evil-doers who had gone their devious ways through the swinging baize doors of his court, North stalked as the one great criminal.