“Thank you, I am not drinking anything to-night, Tom. I merely dropped in to ask a question or two.” “Fire away.” “Have you seen a young fellow hanging around here lately--smooth-faced boy, dark eyes and dark hair--dresses pretty well?” “Why, yes; that’s the kid. He’s here now.” “Alone?” “Well, hardly; the Professor has sort of adopted him, I reckon; anyhow, they run together most of the time.” Brant’s face flushed as if the man had smitten him, and with the narrowing of his eyes the past laid fast hold upon him and once more the man-quelling demon was in possession. “There is only one ‘Professor,’ I take it.” He spoke softly, as one speaks to a little child. “You mean Jim Harding?” “Sure; _her_ brother. You ought to know him, if anybody does.” “Yes, I know him.” The recusant sinner turned his back to the bar and let his gaze go adrift down the long room. It was comfortably filled. There were pairs and trios and quartettes at the card tables; little groups around the marble games and roulette boards; a front rank of sitters about the faro table, with a standing reserve playing over the shoulders of those in the chairs; and in the midst an uneasy throng revolving about the various centres of attraction, like the slow-moving figures in a timeless minuet. Somewhere in this devil’s dragnet was the boy--the boy who was Dorothy’s brother. To keep that in mind asked for an effort, because with the boy he should find his enemy, the man who had traded upon a sister’s shame. At the thought the gray eyes grew hard and cruel, and his hand went back toward the bartender. “Give me your pistol a minute, Tom; I may need it,” he said, without looking around. “It won’t do down here, George. They’d hang you too quick for any use.” “Never mind about that; give me the gun.” The weapon was passed across the bar and Brant dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he dipped into the uneasy throng and began a search which ended beside one of the roulette boards. Young Langford was watching the game dry-lipped and hot-eyed, and at his side stood a man who might have passed otherwhere for a schoolmaster. He was tall and slightly stooping, his garments were of the clerical cut, and his lean face was clean shaven. Only in the ferrety eyes was there a hint of the unfathomable wickedness of the man. The nickname of “the Professor” fitted him aptly, and he dressed the part, playing it with all the skill of a trained actor. To outward appearances no more harmless person than James Harding could have been met in a day’s journey; but Brant knew his man. Coming softly up behind, he seized Harding’s right wrist and held it helpless while he spoke. “Excuse yourself to the boy and come out with me,” he whispered at Harding’s ear; and the vicelike grip turned the soft-spoken words into a command. Harding’s answer was a stealthy movement of his free hand toward his breast pocket, but Brant checked it with a word.