Brant wheeled at the word and saw that which suddenly buried his own trouble deep under the _débris_ of a shattered ideal. At a small table in the corner of the room two men sat playing cards. One of them was so good a type of his clan that Brant was able to summarize him tersely in the word “rook.” The other was Harry Antrim--Antrim, the self-contained, the immaculate, the very pride and pattern of the well-behaved. The chief clerk was evidently much the worse for liquor; his face was flushed, and his hands trembled when he dealt the cards; but he was sober enough to recognise Brant when the latter came up and accosted him. “It’s about time you were going home, Harry,” he said. “Get your overcoat, and I’ll walk up with you.” The obscene bird across the table took Brant’s measure in a swift glance, and, scenting trouble, sought to make his peace with the newcomer. “We were just having a little game for pastime, you understand--low man pays for the dr--for the cigars,” he explained. Brant ignored the peaceful overture and the maker of it, and asked Antrim what he had done with his coat. “It’s all right about the coat,” replied the foolish one, making a pitiful effort to keep the consonants in their proper places. “Man don’t need any overcoat in summer time. Le’s go home.” Brant saw that the man across the table wore an overcoat, and that he was sitting upon another. “I’ll trouble you to let me have my friend’s coat,” he said mildly, but the cold gray eyes narrowed and shot a look with the words that made the request a demand. “Oh, certainly, if he is a friend of yours”--the rook had never laid eyes on Brant before. “But it wasn’t no brace game; I win it fair enough.” Brant helped Antrim to his feet and into his coat, after which he walked him home with no word of inquiry or reproach. Truly, the foolish one was far enough beyond the reach of admonition, but he was also sane enough to appreciate the value of the silence which is golden, and he made an effort to say as much when Brant led him into his room and lighted the gas. “Much obliged, George, for what you haven’t said.” He steadied himself with his hands on the table and tried to catch Brant’s eye: “’Nother fellow would’ve preached, and a sermon isn’t jush what I need.” “I know that. Good night,” said Brant, and therewith he left the prisoner of fools to the company of an accuser which is not to be silenced save by many applications of the searing iron. The night editor of the Plainsman was in the midst of the last batch of copy when Brant redeemed his promise to return, and Forsyth motioned to a chair. “Sit down; I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, and when the desk was cleared he wheeled the pivot chair to face his visitor and drew up another for a foot rest. “Thanks be; that is the last of it for one more day. It’s a ‘demnition grind,’ but I suppose that is true of every occupation under the sun. Haven’t you found it so?”