THE STEADFAST HEART
verged on hearty welcome—but fell just short of it. Crane always verged upon but never quite attained. As Wilkins said of him, he was a mite short at one end. He was somewhat older than Wilkins but appeared younger. He verged upon stoutness; the cast of his face verged upon good humor; his eyes verged upon frankness; he verged upon baldness. Now he was wondering what could have brought this pair of callers.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, and insisted upon shaking hands with each of them. “It is seldom the law is visited by both pulpit and press at once. I hope I can be of service to you.”
Wilkins smiled his dry, spectator’s smile. It was characteristic of him—of a man who has been pushed aside or has chosen to step aside from the actual jostle of life to occupy a little grandstand of his own and watch the parade pass by. Crane did not fail to detect the smile out of the corner of his eye, and for an instant his expression verged upon a frown.
“We came,” said Trueman, “to see you about that poor child in the jail.”
“Of course. Of course. I might have expected that of your warm heart, Mr. Trueman. You’ve been to see him? Quite right. Quite right.”
“I've seen him,” said Trueman, “and—in his pitiful way—he told me all about it—about the
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