“Yes, you can--you have got to; and then you are going to let me take you home and put you to bed; and if we hear of any more foolishness, you will come in for a manhauling that you won’t get over for a week.” Antrim reached backward for the sleeves of the overcoat and groaned piteously. “Great Moses! I feel as if I’d had that already. What the mischief do you suppose makes me so stiff and sore?” Brant’s laugh lacked sympathy. “It is one of the after-effects, I fancy; look out you don’t bring it on again.” And he tucked Antrim’s arm under his own and led him uptown, carrying out his programme to the letter, and playing his new rôle of bearwarden until he had seen his charge safe in bed. When he reached his own room he found the packet of papers still in his pocket and tossed it carelessly across to the table. Then he thought better of it, and put the envelope back in his pocket. “It is climbing into the plane of responsibilities, and my conscience isn’t clean enough yet to handle it,” he mused. “Just now I feel as if I should like to burn the stuff and give the beggar a chance for his life; and yet I suppose there are plenty of purists who would say that I am an accessory in the murder of Henry Brinton for not giving his murderer up to justice. I wonder what _she_ would say about it? If I knew, that is what I should do.” He stretched his arms and yawned sleepily. “Heigho! it’s a queer old round world, from any point of view; but since the morning and the evening of this blessed day, I’m rather glad to be in it.” With which altruistic reflection he went to bed to dream that he was about to be hanged for the murder of one Henry Brinton. CHAPTER XXII HOW THE SMOKING FLAX WAS QUENCHED A WISER than any here has said that as a man lieth down, so riseth he up; and inasmuch as a good deed had rounded out the Tuesday which was to be held worthy of anniversaries, it was Brant the brother-keeper who thrust his head into Antrim’s room on the Wednesday morning what time the convalescent was dressing. “Peace to your ashes, Henry, my son! How do you pan out by this time?” “Better, thank you; only I’m black and blue in spots and too sore to talk about. Say, do you know, I think I must have been in a fight last night! But I don’t remember the first thing about it.” Brant grinned. “I had been aching to get a chance at you, and it came in my way last night--trying to make you come alive to your responsibilities, you know. Never gave anybody such a jolly good beating in all my life. Shall I come in and shake you into your raiment?” “Oh, no, thank you; I’ll be down directly. Wait for me, if you are not in too much of a hurry. I’ll eat with you.”