Jarvis took time to think about it, and assurance slipped still farther into the abyss of incertitude. “If it is only a guess, you can make it a certainty,” he said at length. Brant smiled. “You would hardly expect me to tie the rope around my own neck, even in a confidential talk with you. But I will tell you a little, and you may infer the rest--you are pretty good at inferences. My quarrel with Harding was of the deadly sort, and it had been going on for years. A few weeks ago I ran him out of town, telling him plainly that if he came back I should kill him. After he had gone I learned that he had done a thing for which there was no such word as forgiveness, and I swore then, and wrote it down in a letter, that his chance for life lay in keeping out of my way. Can you put two and two together?” Jarvis nodded slowly. “You’ve buried me and my little theory six feet deep, with a stone atop, and--and I’m honestly sorry. I couldn’t believe you’d do a thing like that in cold blood, George.” “Do you call it cold blood? There were three of us in that eight-by-ten shambles that night, and somebody had to die.” The turnkey was unlocking the door, and Jarvis rose. “I guess there isn’t anything more to say,” he said. “Can I do anything for you?” “Yes; you may take a line to Forsyth for me, if you will.” And then to the jailer: “One minute, Carson, until I write a note.” The note was written, and Jarvis took his leave, wringing Brant’s hand at parting quite as heartily as he would if the card house of guesses had not been wrecked. “You’ve simply made another friend, old man,” he whispered. “It was mostly curiosity with me before, but now I’ll stand by you while the lamp holds out to burn.” Brant returned the hand grip, but his smile had in it more than gratitude. “I’ll let you know when you can do anything,” he promised; and then the iron door came between. The reporter found his chief waiting impatiently for his return, and Forsyth was soon acquainted not only with Jarvis’s guesses, but with the main points in the late interview. “That’s all,” said Jarvis in conclusion, “except that he gave me this note for you.” Forsyth read the note and swore gratefully. “You are to be congratulated, Jarvis; you have done what none of the rest of us have been able to do. He consents to accept Judge Langford as his counsel.” And the editor went quickly to the telephone to call up the house in the Highlands. This was the skirling of the bell which had interrupted the master of Hollywood as he was sitting down to his dinner, and which had made Dorothy linger on the stair to hear what should come of it. “What is it, papa?” she asked, when her father replaced the earpiece in its hook. “It is a message from Mr. Forsyth. Brant has notified him that he will accept me as his counsel, and has promised not to obstruct us any more. You may take that for a grain of comfort.” But Dorothy still lingered. “Is the time set for the trial, papa?”