The mention of the judge’s name turned the scale, and William Langford was released. Brant looked his thanks, and the reporter nodded. Then the officers moved off with their prisoner, and in the slight confusion Jarvis got speech with Brant.
“Is there anything I can do for you, old man?” he whispered.
“Yes; get the boy into a carriage and send him home.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it. Keep a stiff upper lip, and you’ll come out all right.”
The reporter fell back when they reached the street, and a few minutes later Brant was ushered into the presence of the lieutenant on duty at the police station. The officer took his name and entered it in the record; and since the prisoner would answer no other questions, he presently found himself safe behind bolts and bars in the city jail, charged with the murder of James Harding.
There was a cot in the corner of the cell, and when the turnkey left him Brant flung himself down upon it in sheer weariness. He had been up the better part of two nights, and whatever tangle of thought there was asking to be set in order, sleep was more insistent. But the trials of the night were not yet at an end. While he was but dozing, the door bolts clanked and the door swung open to admit Forsyth. Brant would have risen, but the editor prevented him and came to sit on the edge of the cot.
“Don’t disturb yourself,” he made haste to say. “I haven’t come to fight with you. Jarvis has told me all about it, and I just came over to let you know that you have a friend or two left, if you are the biggest fool on record.”
“That was good of you,” Brant rejoined, and he would have been less than human if the editor’s kindness had not touched him. “I was sure you would come, but I wasn’t expecting you to-night.”