The only Superlative not present was the Swiftest, Chief of the Messenger Service. 'Laid up with another bad attack of rheumatism,' Mr. Virtue explained sympathetically.
'He'll be laid up with worse than that after the contests,' grinned Cleverest, with a meaning wink at Drayton.
The latter smiled back, but the effort was mechanical. They boasted of the fair and open nature of these contests, and at the same time talked of the results as a foregone conclusion. One ex-lawyer wondered what ghost of a chance he had to supplant this man, nephew of Justice Supreme, and so sure of his ability to undermine Loveliest, herself a person of influence and evident power. He had the ghastly feeling of a man walking on a thin crust above unknown fires. There was too little that they understood; too much that hinted of subterranean movements and powers which at any moment might writhe and cast them all into that theatrical, deadly pit, beneath the Dove of Peace.
Then he heard the green-eyed lady's voice again, speaking in the silkiest of tones. 'And this, my friends, is our Chief of Contractors, the Strongest. Stringy, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Trenmore. And Miss Trenmore. This little lady is to try her hand at domesticity, Stringy. I don't imagine there will be any competition-not for that office.'
The official whom she disrespectfully misaddressed as 'Stringy' fitted his nickname better than his real title of Strongest. He was a tall, long-limbed, lean man, with a very red face and sunburned neck. He glanced pityingly at Viola. From her his gaze turned anxiously to the huge giant of a man with whom he was shortly to contend not only for continuance in office, but life itself. He started to say something, choked, and, turning abruptly, hurried off to lose himself in the crowd of his more fortunate fellows.
'Somebody has tipped Stringy off,' laughed Mr. Virtue. 'Hi, there, Merry! Whither away?'
But the ineffable Mr. Mercy jerked roughly from his friend's detaining hand and without a glance for the rest of the party passed on through the door leading to the inner sanctuary.
'He's sore, too,' growled Virtue. 'Lovely, you're getting me in bad all around.'
'Merry will get over it,' she replied indifferently. 'He never thinks of any one but himself. Outside of that he's a good sort. I'll square things for you, Virty, once this examination is over. What was it you said, Mr. Drayton?'
'Is there any objection,' repeated Drayton, 'to my wandering about a bit? The decorative schemes of these rooms are wonderful. I used to be interested in such things, as a boy. You don't mind?'
'Not at all. Go over toward the eastern side, though, away from Mr. J. S.'s sanctum. And be back here within the half hour.'
'I will. Terry, you don't mind if I leave you?'
'Go ahead,' assented the Irishman, and Viola nodded abstractedly. She was staring out at that pathetically silent multitude in the Hall of Justice.
As a matter of fact, the lawyer craved solitude for thought. The more time he spent in this Temple of Justice, the more he became convinced of the puerility of their own light-hearted schemes.
Viola's reflections, had he known it, were no shade less gloomy than his own. Quick-brained, intuitive to a degree, the psychic atmosphere of the place, combined with hints picked up here and there, had shaken her assurance to its foundations. She could think of nothing but Drayton's well-nigh certain failure and its inevitable toll of disaster. She herself would then be the promised bride of a man she instinctively loathed, while Drayton-but there she halted, unable to contemplate the hideous fate which once more threatened.
Her reverie was interrupted by her brother. The Loveliest had deserted him temporarily and was engaged with some of her friends across the room. The two Trenmores conversed for some time undisturbed; then Terry drew out his watch.
'Viola, it's 11:45 and Bobby is not yet back. Where can the lad be lingering, do you think?'
Before the girl could reply, Loveliest hurried over to them.
'You must go out into the hall now, big man. You, too, my dear.'
'Not without Mr. Drayton,' stipulated Viola firmly. 'He has not returned!'
Loveliest frowned. 'We certainly cannot wait for him! I warned him to be back here by half past eleven.'
'I'll go look for him,' volunteered Trenmore; but Lady Green-eyes checked him.
'I can send an officer if you really can't get along without him. He is probably lost somewhere in the corridors. Here comes Mr. Justice Supreme. I told you it was late!'
A green baize door at the end of the room had swung open. Through it filed several men, all attired in the same frock coats, light trousers, patent-leather pumps and spats which distinguished Mercy and Virtue from the common herd. They also possessed similar silk hats, and wore them, though they and the police were the only male persons within the Temple with covered heads. The hats, evidently, were further marks of distinction, like a bishop's miter or the splendid crown of royalty.
Having passed through the door, they divided into two ranks, the last man at the end on each side holding wide the two halves of the door. There followed a pause, during which a solemn hush settled throughout the Green Room.
Through the open doorway emerged the figure of a very old man. He was bent, shaking, decrepit with a loathsome senility. His face was shaven and his clothes the apotheosis of dandyism. His coat curved in at the waist, his shoes were two mirrors, his hat another. He wore a yellow chrysanthemum as a boutonniere, and from his eyeglasses depended a broad black ribbon. His vest was of white flowered satin. His hands were ungloved yellow claws, and in one of them he carried an ivory-headed ebony cane. With the latter he felt his way like a blind man, and supported himself in his slow and tremulous progress.
His face! It was lined and scarred by every vice of which Clever's younger countenance had hinted. His pale- blue eyes, rheumy and red-rimmed, blinked evilly above purple pouches. Over ragged yellow teeth his mouth worked and snarled, as though mumbling a continuous, silent curse against life and all mankind.
Looking neither to right nor left, he hobbled between the ranks of the lesser Servants. Promptly, as he passed, they closed in behind and followed him on and across the Green Room toward the door which led to his great golden throne, set in the Hall of Justice.
And the people in the room bowed very reverently as he passed by-bowed and looked relieved that he had gone without a word to them.
Staring fascinated, Viola and her brother were startled by a whisper at their shoulders.
'Old J. S. has had a bad night. He looks grouchier than usual!'
It was the irrepressible Loveliest. 'Come over to the window,' she continued as the door closed behind the last of the Servants. 'I'll tell you exactly who's who. You see that man helping His Supremity up the steps of the dais? That is Mr. Courage, his right-hand man. And just behind is Mr. Kindness. That short, thin one is Mr. Power; the old fellow that drags one leg is Mr. Purity. Then come Mr. Pity, Mr. Contentment, and Mr. Love. And there goes good old Virty, looking as if his last friend had died; just because Mercy cut him, I suppose, and he blames me for it. But they're all alike-they never think of any one but themselves. I suppose Merry is sulking somewhere, too.
'Those are all the Servants who are here to-day. There are twelve altogether. And now you really must go to your places. I've sent a man to look for your friend and I'll have him brought out to you as soon as he is found. I have to stay here with the other Superlatives until my place is called; but of course that is merely a formality. The only candidates up are yourselves, and that boy the Numbers are trying to wedge in as Musical Director. Here, Fifty-three,' she addressed their old acquaintance, the police sergeant, 'look after my friends, will you? Well the nerve of him! Will you look at Clever? He's gone right up on the dais with the Servants! I don't care if Mr. J. S. is his uncle, Clever has no right to push himself forward like that-not while he's holding a Superlative office!'
She was still talking as they left her, but so obviously to herself that they felt guilty of no discourtesy. Following Sergeant Fifty-three, they were led to a place at one side of the roped-off enclosure. No one else was there, save a slim, graceful boy of about nineteen or twenty. This was the Numbers' candidate for Musical Director. He was plainly, though not shabbily dressed, and his face was of such unusual beauty that Viola was really startled. As she said afterward, that face was the first thing she had seen in the city which reminded her that somewhere still there really was a Heaven.
CHAPTER 15: THE JUSTICE OF PENN SERVICE
