“That _is_ true,” said John, “I know. Now please tell me just how you came to do it.” “Oh, damn you!” said Curtin, brokenly. “Damn both of you! You’ll tear me to pieces between you. He made me do it.” “I know he did. I want you to tell me how.” Sullenly, brazenly, fearfully, shiftily, and with many intervals of feeble blasphemous ravings against the two strong men who had ground him between them, Curtin told the long story, and John listened with half his mind, while the other half was making plans. But at last something caught his whole attention. “Say that again,” he commanded. “You tell me that Sponley laid violent hands on you, yesterday afternoon, in the bar-room of the Eagle Café? Was there a witness present?” “The barkeeper.” John sprang to his feet. “That’s what I want,” he said exultantly, and his jaws came together with a snap. “Dorlin, will you order a carriage, quick? We’ll have to cut it fine.” Then his strong lips bent in an ironical smile. “You’ll come with me, Mr. Curtin, to the nearest justice and swear out a warrant for Sponley’s arrest on a charge of assault and battery.” CHAPTER XXI A CORNER The withered, leering, old Goddess of Luck must have grinned wide that morning. To smile knowingly over men’s hopes is her delight; but to smile behind the back of a man who is smiling, is the double distillation of pleasure. Melville Sponley had never enjoyed living before as in those minutes, one or two less than ninety, while he played cautiously and allowed Pickering some small hope of winning, and postponed planting the last thrust in him until the hour he himself had set should have fully come. He had had fancies of this kind before, but never had he indulged one of them, and so this had the added delight of novelty. But while he waited, John Bagsbury, whom he thought to be no longer in the game, was taking a hand in this last dealing of the cards. When Sponley smiled over Pickering’s last desperate rally, Jervis Curtin had already sworn out a warrant that was to confound him. And when, after an amused glance at the big clock, the Bear began to deliver the final attack, it was too late, for the carriage that had driven through the streets in such reckless hurry had already pulled up before the Board of Trade building. The men inside came tumbling out before it had fairly stopped; they crossed the sidewalk and the wide vestibule at a run and dashed upstairs, three steps at a stride, to the entrance to the floor. There they stopped and peered frowning into the crowd. One of them, it was John Bagsbury, began giving swift instructions to the other two, and they followed with their eyes the direction of his pointing finger. In a moment they nodded comprehendingly, and as John turned away, they moved out on the floor.