“You know me, McCafferty,” he said. “I’ll vouch for the young man. He is the son of Judge Langford, and you can find him when you want him.” The mention of the judge’s name turned the scale, and William Langford was released. Brant looked his thanks, and the reporter nodded. Then the officers moved off with their prisoner, and in the slight confusion Jarvis got speech with Brant. “Is there anything I can do for you, old man?” he whispered. “Yes; get the boy into a carriage and send him home.” “Is that all?” “Yes.” “I’ll do it. Keep a stiff upper lip, and you’ll come out all right.” The reporter fell back when they reached the street, and a few minutes later Brant was ushered into the presence of the lieutenant on duty at the police station. The officer took his name and entered it in the record; and since the prisoner would answer no other questions, he presently found himself safe behind bolts and bars in the city jail, charged with the murder of James Harding. There was a cot in the corner of the cell, and when the turnkey left him Brant flung himself down upon it in sheer weariness. He had been up the better part of two nights, and whatever tangle of thought there was asking to be set in order, sleep was more insistent. But the trials of the night were not yet at an end. While he was but dozing, the door bolts clanked and the door swung open to admit Forsyth. Brant would have risen, but the editor prevented him and came to sit on the edge of the cot. “Don’t disturb yourself,” he made haste to say. “I haven’t come to fight with you. Jarvis has told me all about it, and I just came over to let you know that you have a friend or two left, if you are the biggest fool on record.” “That was good of you,” Brant rejoined, and he would have been less than human if the editor’s kindness had not touched him. “I was sure you would come, but I wasn’t expecting you to-night.” “You might have known I’d be with you as soon as I could get away from the desk. I presume you will get your preliminary in the morning?” “I suppose so; though I don’t know anything about it.” “It’s safe to count on it, anyway,” Forsyth continued, “and there are two matters to be arranged in the meantime--counsel and bail. Give me a list of your friends, and I’ll go out and hustle for you.” Brant laughed. “I haven’t reputable friends enough to furnish bail in a case of assault and battery. There are plenty of the other kind, but I don’t mean to call on them--or to let any one else.” “Oh, pshaw! what difference can it make now? You can’t hope to preserve your incognito through all the publicity of a murder trial.” “I wasn’t thinking of that; and it makes all the difference in the world to me,” said Brant doggedly. “I want none of their help, and I sha’n’t accept it--that’s all.” “Well and good,” replied the editor cheerily. “In that event I shall have to see what I can do on my own account.”