The Wild Olive | Page 8

across
his brow as though in an effort to clear his mental vision.
"No; you don't seem to be asking much. But, as a matter of fact, you're
demanding my pledge to my country. I undertook to administer its
laws--"
Ford sprang up.
"You've done it," he cried, "and I'm the result! You've administered the
law right up to its hilt, and your duty as a judge is performed. Surely
you're free now to think of yourself as a man and to treat me as one."
"I might do that, and still think you a man dangerous to leave at large."
"But do you?"
"That's my affair. Whatever your opinion of the courts that have judged
your case, I must accept their verdict."
"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.
"Then all the more reason why society should protect itself against
you," Wayne began again; but Ford was no longer listening. His
attention was wholly fixed on the girl, who continued to beckon
noiselessly, fluttering for an instant close to the threshold of the room,
then withdrawing suddenly to the very edge of the terrace, waving a
white scarf in token that he should follow her. She had repeated her
action again and again, beckoning with renewed insistence, before he
understood and made up his mind.
"I don't say that I refuse to help you," Wayne was saying. "My
sympathy with you is very sincere. If I can get your sentence

commuted--In fact, a reprieve is almost certain--"
With a dash as lithe and sudden as that which had brought him in, Ford
was out on the terrace, following the white dress and the waving scarf
which were already disappearing down the yew-tree