“You know very well that I don’t have to make terms with you, but you shall have the money. The papers I keep. Now go and get the boy, and don’t make any bad breaks. If you do, I shall shoot first and talk afterward.” Harding drew breath of relief and re-entered the kennel with Brant at his heels. Inside the swing doors the latter gave another order. “Go on and get your man; I’ll wait here while you are doing it.” When Harding was about it Brant turned to the bartender. “Here is your gun, Tom; much obliged. And, while I think of it, I’ll turn over the Professor’s arsenal. You can give it back to him when he calls for it.” A murderous-looking knife, a life preserver, and a set of brass knuckles changed hands, and Deverney swept them into a drawer with an exclamation of surprise. “Holy Smut! And he let you catch him without his gun!” he said. “Not much,” rejoined Brant pleasantly. “But I shall keep that for a little while. I am not through with him yet. And say, Tom, that reminds me: if that youngster ever comes back here, just pull that ‘No Minors Allowed’ sign on him and run him out. You won’t lose anything, because he will have no money to blow in.” “I’ll do it--for you, George. But the Professor will run him in again.” “I shall make it my business to see that he doesn’t,” Brant asserted; and just then Harding came up with young Langford. “Hello, Brant,” said the cub, with a free-and-easy swagger born of the place rather than of his temperament. “By gad, I didn’t know you were a sporting man! Shake hands with my friend Mr. Harding.” Brant scowled, but the boy saw nothing and rattled on: “Going home early to-night. What will you take, gentlemen? It’s on me.” “Nothing,” said Brant shortly; and Harding drew the boy away. The pair left the place and went up the street, with Brant a few steps in the rear. At the corner a night-owl carriage was waiting for a chance fare, and Harding opened the door and got in with his companion. At the click of the door latch Brant climbed to a seat beside the driver and gave the order. “No. 16 Altamont Terrace,” he said; and when the horses were fairly headed for North Denver he lighted a cigar and ventured to anticipate success. But the triumph was short-lived. While the carriage was yet rumbling over the viaduct the little upflash of triumph flickered and went out. For, however worthy the cause in which he had fought and won, it was Brant the man of violence, and no repentant sinner of them all, who had done the fighting. For the time being he had lapsed as thoroughly as if the new leaf had never been turned, and the dregs of that cup were bitter. CHAPTER VIII A BLOW IN THE DARK