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 the discovery by his “honored client that no such man existed, had not existed for years, and did not now exist.”

“Dead, your Honor”—throwing out his chest impressively, his voice swelling—“dead in his grave these siven years, this Mr. Thomas Grogan; and yet this woman has the bald and impudent effrontery to”—

“That will do, Mr. Rowan.”

Police justices—justices like Rowan—did not count much with Judge Bowker, and then he never permitted any one to abuse a woman in his presence.

“The point you make is that Mrs. Grogan had no right to sign her name to a contract made out in the name of her dead husband.”

“I do, your Honor,” said Rowan, resuming his seat.

“Why did you sign it?” asked Judge Bowker, turning to Tom.

She looked at Babcock. He nodded assent, and then she answered:—

“I allus signed it so since he left me.”

There was a pleading, tender pathos in her words that startled Babcock. He could hardly believe the voice to be Tom's.

The judge looked at her with a quick, pene-