“Yes, she is,” responded Langford, absently, for he was not looking at the girl reporter, nor were his thoughts on her side of the rail. He wished for the sake of Williston’s “little girl” that there were not so much tobacco stench in the room. But this was a vague and intangible wish. He wished with the whole strength of his manhood—which was much—that this man on trial might be made to pay the penalty of his crime as a stepping-stone to paying the penalty of that greater crime of which he firmly believed him guilty. His own interest had become strangely secondary since that hot July day when he had pledged himself to vengeance. This falling off might have dated from a certain September morning when he had lost himself—for all time—to a girl with pain-pinched face and fever-brightened eyes who wore a blue wrapper. His would not be a personal triumph now, if he won. Court adjourned that evening with the jury-box filled. The State’s friends were feeling pretty good about it. Langford made his way into the bar where Gordon was standing apart. He passed an arm affectionately over his friend’s shoulder. “You were inspired, Dick,” he said. “Keep on the same as you have begun and we shall have everything our own way.” But the fire had died down in the young lawyer’s bearing. “I’m tired, Paul, dead tired,” he said, wearily. “I wish it were over.” “Come to supper—then you’ll feel better. You’re tired out. It is a tough strain, isn’t it?” he said, cheerily. He was not afraid. He knew the fire would burn the brighter again when there was need of it—in the morning. They passed out of the bar together. At the hotel, Mary and Louise were already seated at the table in the dining-room where the little party usually sat together when it was possible to do so. Judge Dale had not yet arrived. The landlady was in a worried dispute with Red Sanderson and a companion. The men were evidently cronies. They had their eyes on two of the three vacant places at the table. “But I tell you these places are taken,” persisted the landlady, who served as head-waitress when such services were necessary, which was not often. Her patrons usually took and held possession of things at their own sweet will. “You bet they are,” chimed in Red, deliberately pulling out a chair next to Louise, who shivered in recognition. “Please—” she began, in a small voice, but got no farther. Something in his bold, admiring stare choked her into silence. “You’re a mighty pretty girl, if you are a trottin’ round with the Three Bars,” he grinned. “Plenty time to change your live—” “Just move on, will you,” said Gordon, curtly, coming up at that moment with Langford and shoving him aside with unceremonious brevity. “This is my place.” He sat down quietly. “You damned upstart,” blustered Sanderson. “Want a little pistol play, do you?” “Gentlemen! gentlemen!” implored the landlady.