window to the street; and as he stared, thinking of his brother shot down in darkness by an unseen enemy, his eyes, cold and merciless before, began to glow madly with his slow but—once aroused—obstinate and pitiless anger.
"Mr. Trant;" he turned back suddenly, "I do not deny that when I called for you this morning, instead of getting a detective from the city police as Chapin expected, it was not to hang Jim Tyler, as I pretended, but with a determination to give him every chance that was coming to him after I had to go against him. But he gave Neal none—none!—and it's no matter what Neal did to his father; I'm keeping you here now to help me hang him! And Chapin! when I ordered Tyler's arrest, I told the police I'd prefer charges against him this morning, but he seems impatient. He's coming here with Captain Crowley from the station now," he continued with short, sharp distinctness. "So let him in, Chapin—I don't care to trust myself at the door—Jim's come for it, and—I'll let him have it!"
"You mean you are going to charge him with murder now, before that officer, Mr. Sheppard?" Trant moved quickly before his client, as Chapin obediently went toward the door. "Don't," he warned tersely.
"Don't? Why?"
"The first bullet in your brother's gun that failed—the other three—the one which the other fellow did not even try to shoot," Trant enumerated almost breathlessly, as he heard the front door open. "Do they mean nothing to you?"
And putting between his strong even teeth the car-
