“That is all I need to know. Now go in and comfort your father and mother. I can help--perhaps more than you would be willing to believe. Good night.” “One word, Mr. Brant: you will bring him home if you find him, won’t you?” “Certainly. And I’ll find him, if he is in Denver. Has he a latchkey?” “Yes.” “Then don’t sit up for him; and don’t let your mother, if you can help it. And you mustn’t grieve; it will come out all right.” “Oh, if I could only believe that! But I don’t know how we can ever repay you, Mr. Brant.” “Wait till I have done something worthy of payment; then perhaps I may tell you--if you will let me. Good-bye.” A car was coming, and he ran to the crossing to intercept it. Half an hour later he was climbing the stairs to the editorial rooms of the Colorado Plainsman, listening to the rumbling of the presses in the basement, and wondering if his slight acquaintance with the man he sought would serve his purpose. The night editor was in, but his desk was yet unlittered. “Hello, Brant; glad to see you. Sit down. Got a scoop for us?” “Not exactly,” said Brant. Then he took counsel of directness. “It is rather the other way about. I want to cut a slice out of one that you have got.” “Anything in reason. State the case,” said the editor briefly. “It is this: the police raided a dive last night, I believe?” “Yes, Draco’s. It was this morning, though, after the forms were locked.” “So I supposed. Well, there is one name that must come out of the list of arrests--that of William Langford.” Editor Forsyth lighted a cigar and tilted his swing chair to what the night force called the disputatious angle. “‘Must’ is a stout word in a newspaper office,” he objected. “Who is this William Langford? and why should he play and not pay?” Brant uncoupled the two queries and spoke only to the latter. “There are plenty of reasons. For one, he is only a boy; for another, he is a friend of mine.” The editor chuckled. “You have no business to be making maps in the colonel’s office,” he retorted. “You ought to syndicate yourself to the refrigerator people; they’d save money on their ice bills.” “Never mind about that. Will you do what I want you to?” “Oh, sure.” Forsyth took down the copy hook, found the report of the raid, and blue-pencilled the name of William Langford. “It’s rank treason--muzzling the press, you know--but anything to oblige a friend. What else can I do for you?” “Much; this is only the beginning. Put on your hat and coat and go with me to the other morning papers. I don’t know any of the newspaper men; but they will do it for you.” The chair of the night editor righted itself with a crash. “By Jove! Say, Brant, you’ve got the cold nerve of your namesake over in the Silverette district; I’ll be hanged if you haven’t. Oh, I’ll go,” he went on. “I suppose the other fellows will say there is a woman in the case, and devil me accordingly, but that won’t matter. Come on, and let’s have it over with.”