What the self-constituted guardian of the Langford honour would do is not to be here set down, since the carriage was stopping at the gate. Harding would have given much to know that, and many other things; would have purchased another quarter of an hour with the boy at any reasonable price. But with the carriage drawn up before the judge’s gate and Brant sitting on the box, the time was unpropitious. So Harding was fain to bury his desire for further knowledge under a final word of caution. “I’m glad I happened to mention it. Keep your eye on him and give him the whole sidewalk. I saw him hanging around down yonder, and I was afraid he might get his hands on you; that’s why I brought you home. Good night.” Brant heard the last word, and saw the boy go up the walk and let himself into the house. Then he gave the driver the return order. “Back to town,” he said. “You can put us down at Elitch’s.” The long drive back to town was full of disquieting reflections for the man who desired nothing so much as to be allowed to atone for past violence by present and future good behaviour, and who was yet constrained to play the ruffler through still another interview with James Harding. Such reflections capped by such consequences are likely to be heart-hardening, and Brant was in no merciful mood when the carriage drew up at the curb in front of the _café_ and he climbed down to open the door. “Come out,” he rasped; and when Harding stood beside him, “You will have to go in here with me to get your money.” Harding nodded, and threw in a sneer. “Banking with John nowadays, are you?” But to this Brant made no reply. As it chanced, the great dining room was nearly empty, and the genial proprietor, known and loved of all men, was at his desk. Brant took him aside. “John, I want a hundred dollars to use right now. Can you cash a check for me?” The genial one laughed. It was not his way to cash checks for men whom he knew and trusted. “Not much,” he said. “You can have the century, but I don’t want your paper.” And he found the money in the little safe behind the desk. “Anything else I can do for you?” “Yes; I want to use one of the private rooms for a few minutes.” Elitch held up a finger for the head waiter, a stalwart young fellow who looked as if he might be a college athlete working his way through a lean vacation. “Parker, show these gentlemen to No. 4, and light the gas for them. No orders.” The athletic one led the way to a small private dining room partitioned off in the rear of the public tables. It was a mere box, lighted by a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and furnished only with table and chairs. When they were alone, Harding dropped into one of the chairs and Brant drew up another on the opposite side of the table. “Now, then, talk quick and tell the truth--if you can. What did you say to the boy?”