“Yes,” admitted Mother Borton; “they thought he carried papers, and maybe they ain't got over the idea yit. It's jest as well you're here instid of having a little passear with Tom Terrill and Darby Meeker and their pals.” “Well,” said I, as cheerfully as I could under the depressing circumstances, “if they want to kill me, I don't see how I can keep them from getting a chance sooner or later.” Mother Borton looked anxious at this, and shook her head. “You must call on your men,” she said decidedly. “You must have guards.” “By the way,” I said, “that reminds me. The men haven't been paid, and they're looking to me for money.” “Who's looking to you for money?” “Dicky Nahl--and the others, I suppose.” “Dicky Nahl?” “Why, yes. He asked me for it.” “And you gave it to him?” she asked sharply. “No-o--that is, I gave him ten dollars, and told him he'd have to wait for the rest. I haven't got the money from the one that's doing the hiring yet, so I couldn't pay him.” Mother Borton gave an evil grin, and absorbed another inward laugh. “I reckon the money'll come all right,” said Mother Borton, recovering from her mirth. “There's one more anxious than you to have 'em paid, and if you ain't found out you'll have it right away. Now for guards, take Trent--no, he's hurt. Take Brown and Porter and Barkhouse and Fitzhugh. They're wide-awake, and don't talk much. Take 'em two and two, and never go without 'em, night or day. You stop here to-night, and I'll git 'em for you to-morrow.” I declined the proffered hospitality with thanks, and as a compromise agreed to call for my bodyguard in the early morning. Rejoining Corson, I explained Mother Borton's theory of the plot that had brought me thither. “She's like to be right,” said the policeman. “She knows the gang. Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll let the rats have your room for this night, and come along up to some foine hotel.” The advice appeared good, and fifteen minutes later Corson was drinking my health at the Lick House bar, and calling on the powers of light and darkness to watch over my safety as I slept. Whether due to his prayers or not, my sleep was undisturbed, even by dreams of Doddridge Knapp and his charming but scornful daughter; and with the full tide of life and business flowing through the streets in the morning hours I found myself once more in Mother Borton's dingy eating-room, ordering a breakfast. Mother Borton ignored my entrance, and, perched on a high stool behind the bar and cash-drawer, reminded me of the vulture guarding its prey. But at last she fluttered over to my table and took a seat opposite. “Your men are here,” she said shortly. And then, as I expressed my thanks, she warmed up and gave me a description by which I should know each and led me to the room where, as she said, they were “corralled.” “By the way,” I said, halting outside the door, “they'll want some money, I suppose. Do you know how much?”