The old man straightened up again as Ryder spoke. The restraint of years dropped from him in a twinkling. He told him he was a scoundrel, and he prefaced it with an oath--a slip he did not notice in his excitement. “Hey! What's that?” “You're a damned scoundrel!” repeated Roger Oakley, white with rage. He took a step around the table and came nearer the editor. “I don't know but what I ought to break every bone in your body! You are trying to ruin my son!” He hit the table a mighty blow with his clinched fist, and, thrusting his head forward, glared into Ryder's face. “You have turned his friends against him. Why, he ain't got none left any more. They have all gone over to the other side; and you done it, you done it, and it's got to stop!” Ryder had been taken aback for the moment by Roger Oakley's fierce anger, which vibrated in his voice and flashed in his dark, sunken eyes. “Get out of here,” he shouted, losing control of himself. “Get out or, damn you, I'll kick you out!” “When I'm ready to go I'll leave,” retorted the old man, calmly, “and that will be when I've said my say.” “You'll go now,” and he shoved him in the direction of the door. The shove was almost a blow, and as it fell on his broad chest Roger Oakley gave a hoarse, inarticulate cry and struck out with his heavy hand. Ryder staggered back, caught at the end of the table as he plunged past it, and fell his length upon the floor. The breath whistled sharply from the old man's lips. “There,” he muttered, “you'll keep your hands off!” Ryder did not speak nor move. All was hushed and still in the room. Suddenly a nervous chill seized the old convict. He shook from head to heel. “I didn't mean to hit you,” he said, speaking to the prostrate figure at his feet. “Here, let me help you.” He stooped and felt around on the floor until he found Ryder's hand. He released it instantly to take the lamp from the table. Then he knelt beside the editor. In the corner where the latter lay stood a rusty wood-stove. In his fall Griff's head had struck against it. The lamp shook in Roger Oakley's hand like a leaf in a gale. Ryder's eyes were open and seemed to look into his own with a mute reproach. For the rest he lay quite limp, his head twisted to one side. The old man felt of his heart. One or two minutes elapsed. His bearing was one of feverish intensity. He heard three men loiter by on the street, and the sound of their footfalls die off in the distance, but Ryder's heart had ceased to beat. Fully convinced of this, he returned the lamp to the table and, sitting down in the chair by the door, covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud. Over and over he murmured: “I've killed him, I've killed him! Poor boy! poor boy! I didn't goto do it!” Presently he got up and made a second examination. The man was dead past every doubt. His first impulse was to surrender himself to the town marshal, as he had done once before under similar circumstances. Then he thought of Dan.