Somewhere in this devil’s dragnet was the boy—the boy who was Dorothy’s brother. To keep that in mind asked for an effort, because with the boy he should find his enemy, the man who had traded upon a sister’s shame. At the thought the gray eyes grew hard and cruel, and his hand went back toward the bartender.
“Give me your pistol a minute, Tom; I may need it,” he said, without looking around.
“It won’t do down here, George. They’d hang you too quick for any use.”
“Never mind about that; give me the gun.”
The weapon was passed across the bar and Brant dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he dipped into the uneasy throng and began a search which ended beside one of the roulette boards. Young Langford was watching the game dry-lipped and hot-eyed, and at his side stood a man who might have passed otherwhere for a schoolmaster. He was tall and slightly stooping, his garments were of the clerical cut, and his lean face was clean shaven. Only in the ferrety eyes was there a hint of the unfathomable wickedness of the man. The nickname of “the Professor” fitted him aptly, and he dressed the part, playing it with all the skill of a trained actor.
To outward appearances no more harmless person than James Harding could have been met in a day’s journey; but Brant knew his man. Coming softly up behind, he seized Harding’s right wrist and held it helpless while he spoke.
“Excuse yourself to the boy and come out with me,” he whispered at Harding’s ear; and the vicelike grip turned the soft-spoken words into a command.
Harding’s answer was a stealthy movement of his free hand toward his breast pocket, but Brant checked it with a word.
“Don’t be a fool, or take me for one, unless you are ready to quit. Do as I tell you, and be quick about it.”
There was murder in Harding’s eyes what time he was measuring his chance against the weapon in Brant’s pocket. Then fear took its place, and he obeyed the command.