A MOLEHILL LEVELLED
FROM Brant’s first visit to the transplanted Southern mansion in the
Highlands to the second was but a step, which he found easier to take
after the talk with Antrim about the black sheep.
After that, finding his welcome all that could be desired, he went
often. The judge liked him because he took the trouble to inform
himself on the subject of penology, which was the invalid’s hobby; Mrs.
Langford was disposed to be gracious to him because of his kindness to
Dorothy on the train; Isabel openly rejoiced in the acquisition of a
critic who knew the difference between a work of art and a photograph;
and Dorothy made him welcome for many reasons, most of which she kept
under lock and key in the strong room of her heart.
So there were not a few excursions across the river for Brant, and
all went well until a certain Tuesday evening in late September--the
Tuesday following that Sunday of picture measurings and lovers’
partings. Brant had reached the house in the Highlands rather later
than usual, and found Dorothy alone with her father and mother. There
were unmistakable signs of sorrow in Dorothy’s eyes; and when neither
the judge nor Mrs. Langford seemed grateful for the company of their
guest, Brant cut his visit short.
When he took his leave Dorothy followed him out to the veranda. There
had been nothing more than a pleasant friendship between them thus far,
but Brant had been watching eagerly for a chance to say or do something
which might lessen the distance. Here was the coveted opportunity; and
when she gave him her hand at parting, with a halting excuse for the
gloom of the household, he made bold to hold it while he said:
“Don’t speak of it unless you want to; but--just send me about my
business if I am intruding--is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Then you know?” She stopped in tearful embarrassment, and he was too
generous to allow her to go on.
“I know nothing, and seek to know nothing--that is, not anything more
than you want to tell me. But you seem to be in trouble.”
“I am; we all are. And there is no reason why you shouldn’t know; it
will be in the papers in the morning, and then every one will know.
Will didn’t come home last night, and--and father found him in jail
this morning.”
With all his comings and goings, and with all his good will to know
him better, Brant yet knew the black sheep as little as might be, and
that little by hearsay. The boy was seldom at home in the evening, and
on the few occasions when his homestayings had coincided with Brant’s
visits he had been sullen and reticent, showing forth the fitness of
Antrim’s epithets. Scanty as were his opportunities for observation,
however, Brant had seen that the mother idolized her son and found
no fault in him; that Isabel tempered her sisterly affection with a
generous measure of contempt; and that Dorothy loved her brother not
blindly, but well. And it was with Dorothy’s point of view that Brant
chiefly concerned himself.
“Where is he now?” he inquired.
“We don’t know; that is the sharp edge of it. He was in his room at
noon, but when I went to take him his dinner he was gone.”
“One more question, and you need not answer it if I ought not to know:
What was the trouble last night?”
“I am not sure, but I think that--that--” she stumbled over the wording
of it and would have broken down, but Brant ventured a word of comfort
and she went on: “They were playing cards, and the police took them
all. Will has made mamma believe they were not gambling, but I am
afraid that isn’t true.” She turned away from him to lean against a
veranda pillar to cry softly with her face in her hands.
Brant saw the path of duty very clearly; and he saw, too, that it might
easily lead him straight to his own undoing. None the less, he set his
feet therein like a man and a lover.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “We must find some way to help him. Does Antrim
know anything about this?”
“No; and that is why Isabel went to the theatre with him to-night. They
had planned to go, and she knew he would find out if they stayed at
home. She would have had to tell him.”
“That is all I need to know. Now go in and comfort your father and
mother. I can help--perhaps more than you would be willing to believe.
Good night.”
“One word, Mr. Brant: you will bring him home if you find him, won’t
you?”
“Certainly. And I’ll find him, if he is in Denver. Has he a latchkey?”
“Yes.”
“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.”
Editor Forsyth lighted a cigar and tilted his swing chair to what the
night force called the disputatious angle.
“‘Must’ is a stout word in a newspaper office,” he objected. “Who is
this William Langford? and why should he play and not pay?”
Brant uncoupled the two queries and spoke only to the latter.
“There are plenty of reasons. For one, he is only a boy; for another,
he is a friend of mine.”
The editor chuckled. “You have no business to be making maps in the
colonel’s office,” he retorted. “You ought to syndicate yourself to the
refrigerator people; they’d save money on their ice bills.”
“Never mind about that. Will you do what I want you to?”
“Oh, sure.” Forsyth took down the copy hook, found the report of the
raid, and blue-pencilled the name of William Langford. “It’s rank
treason--muzzling the press, you know--but anything to oblige a friend.
What else can I do for you?”
“Much; this is only the beginning. Put on your hat and coat and go with
me to the other morning papers. I don’t know any of the newspaper men;
but they will do it for you.”
The chair of the night editor righted itself with a crash.
“By Jove! Say, Brant, you’ve got the cold nerve of your namesake over
in the Silverette district; I’ll be hanged if you haven’t. Oh, I’ll
go,” he went on. “I suppose the other fellows will say there is a woman
in the case, and devil me accordingly, but that won’t matter. Come on,
and let’s have it over with.”
“There is a woman in the case,” said Brant calmly. “Otherwise I
shouldn’t be here. But she must not be mentioned.”
“Of course not. Langford is your cousin, and you are his natural
guardian--that’s the line. Light a fresh cigar and we’ll be about it.”
They made the round of the newspaper offices together, and when it was
completed Brant thanked Forsyth at the foot of the Plainsman stairway.
“I owe you one, Forsyth, and I’ll pay it when I can,” he said. “Let
me know when the time comes--say some dark night when you need a
bodyguard, for instance.”
Forsyth laughed. “I believe you would fill the bill about as well as
the Silverette man. By the way, is he a relative of yours?”
“No; but I know something of him. Good night.” And at the word Brant
turned away to begin the search for the lost sheep of the house of
Langford.