“Then don’t sit up for him; and don’t let your mother, if you can help it. And you mustn’t grieve; it will come out all right.”
“Oh, if I could only believe that! But I don’t know how we can ever repay you, Mr. Brant.”
“Wait till I have done something worthy of payment; then perhaps I may tell you—if you will let me. Good-bye.”
A car was coming, and he ran to the crossing to intercept it. Half an hour later he was climbing the stairs to the editorial rooms of the Colorado Plainsman, listening to the rumbling of the presses in the basement, and wondering if his slight acquaintance with the man he sought would serve his purpose. The night editor was in, but his desk was yet unlittered.
“Hello, Brant; glad to see you. Sit down. Got a scoop for us?”
“Not exactly,” said Brant. Then he took counsel of directness. “It is rather the other way about. I want to cut a slice out of one that you have got.”
“Anything in reason. State the case,” said the editor briefly.
“It is this: the police raided a dive last night, I believe?”
“Yes, Draco’s. It was this morning, though, after the forms were locked.”
“So I supposed. Well, there is one name that must come out of the list of arrests—that of William Langford.”