were worse than the broad sands of a desolate life. But he still had
something to do, the final act made possible by his redemption.

At Brookfield he went to the hotel, secured an isolated sitting room
upstairs, and with this as a hall of justice, followed out with his
usual carefulness a plan he had conceived. First he wrote a brief note
to Allis Porter asking her to come and see him at once. One line
he wrote made certain the girl's coming, "I have important news to
communicate concerning Mr. Mortimer." Then he sent the note off with a
man. Next he despatched a messenger for David Cass. He pulled out his
watch and looked at it. It was three o'clock. "I think five will do," he
muttered; "it should be all over by that time." Another note addressed
to Mortimer, asking him to call at the hotel at five o'clock, went
forth.

The village hotel throbbed with the pressure of unwonted business.
The proprietor surmised that a financial matter of huge magnitude was
afloat--another farm was being mortgaged, most like; more money for
Ringwood probably, for had not a buggy gone out there to bring some one
in to the great financier. Those race horses were the devil to put a man
in a hole.

David Cass came, treading on the heels of a much-whiskied howler who had
summoned him.

"You sent for me, sir?" he asked of Crane. It may have been the
stairs--for he had come up hurriedly--that put a waver in his voice; or
it may have been a premonition of trouble.

"Take a seat, Mr. Cass," Crane answered, arranging a chair so that a
strong light from the one window fell across the visitor's face.

The hostler who had shown Cass to where the big man awaited him
lingered, a jagged wobble of humanity, leaning against the door jamb. He
expected an order for "Red Eye," as he had baptized strong drink since
it had grown familiarly into his being. "Oh!" exclaimed Crane, "I'd
forgotten; here's a quarter; much obliged. That's all."

The hostler's unjointed legs, unstable because of recurrent debauchery,
carried him disconsolately to lower levels. The Banker must be sure
of his business, must have it well in hand, when he ignored the usual
diplomatic mollifying preparation of a drink.

The hostler had left the sitting-room door open; Crane closed it
carefully, and, sitting with his back to the window, said to the bank
clerk: "Mr. Cass, I am going to be very candid with you; I am going to
tell you that I have discovered you stole the thousand do