At this conjuncture the stenographer came back, and Brant took up the general manager’s letter. “I’ll take this and make the map,” he said. “Does he want a tracing, or a blue print?” “A tracing, I guess; they will want to make marks on it,” replied Antrim. And Brant went back to his office and fell upon the task with such singleness of purpose that the day was gone before he realized it. As he was leaving the office at six o’clock, a messenger boy met him at the door with a note. It was from the editor of the Plainsman, and it was both brief and noncommittal. “If you have nothing better to do, come down to the office this evening,” it ran. “I have a promising little mystery in hand in which you may be interested.” Brant went back to his desk and wrote a reply. He had meant to go on with his work during the evening, but the editor’s invitation came as a happy alternative. The making of a single map would not afford surcease from the devil of idleness for very long, and anything which promised to postpone the evil day of emptiness was to be accounted a blessing. Wherefore he accepted gladly, and, when the answer was written and despatched, went to supper with the comforting thought that the next few hours were safely provided for. CHAPTER XVII “AS APPLES OF GOLD IN PICTURES OF SILVER” IT was yet early in the evening when Brant climbed the stairs of the Plainsman building to keep his appointment with Forsyth. The presses were roaring in the basement, but on the top floor the reporters’ rooms were untenanted, and the telegraph editor, writing furiously under the sheen of the droplight in his noisy den, was the only member of the staff on duty. When Brant’s form darkened his doorway, the man of specials snapped his key and looked up. “Forsyth’s gone down to supper,” he said. “Told me to tell you to make yourself at home till he came back.” Brant nodded, and went on through the deserted offices to the night editor’s room. The windows were open, but the chill of the October night was in the air, and a bit of fire smouldered in the grate. Brant stirred it into a blaze and was drawing up a chair when Forsyth entered. “Good man!” he exclaimed cheerily. “Sit down and light a fresh cigar while I unfold you a tale. Did my note stir up your curiosity? or do you disown any such womanish weakness?” Brant laughed. “I disown nothing in the way of weaknesses, and we’ll admit the curiosity, with this qualification: it isn’t a womanish weakness--on the contrary, it is altogether masculine. What is the mystery?” Forsyth took a paper from a pile of exchanges and ran a blue pencil around an advertisement in the “Personal” column. “That is the text,” he said. “Read that, and then I’ll go on and preach my sermon.” Brant read: “If Mr. George Brant, formerly of Taggett’s Gulch, Pitkin County, will communicate with J. B., care of the Herald, Leadville, he will hear of something to his advantage.”