vered his poise.

"Quick! Quick!" he called to the clerk, thrusting an impatient hand
through the window. "Give him the paper and let him sign; you can fill
in the numbers afterward!"

The clerk owed his appointment to Boyle's father when the latter was in
Congress; so he was ready at heart to obey. But it was an irregularity
which might rebound with uncomfortable result. Thus he hesitated a few
seconds, and as he hesitated the road-stained horseman pushed in between
Axel Peterson and the window.

"You're a little hasty," said the man. "It's a few seconds until nine
yet, according to my time. My name is Slavens, and I am Number One."

The people in the crowd pressed closer, closing around the tired horse,
which stood with its head drooping, its flaccid sides heaving. Jerry
Boyle said nothing, but he put into his pocket the paper which he had
been holding ready in his hand for Axel Peterson's signature the minute
the entry should be made, and turned his back. A black-visaged man with
shifting, greasy eyes shouldered, panting, through the press of people
and put his hand on Slaven's arm.

"I'd like to have a word with you before you file," he requested.

Slavens looked at him severely from the shadow of his battered hat. The
man lacked the bearing of one who inspires confidence; Slavens frowned
his disapproval of the approach.

"It means money to you," pressed the man, stretching out his hand and
showing a card with numbers penciled on it.

Axel Peterson had stood gaping, his card with numbers on it also in his
hand, held up at a convenient angle for his eyes. Dr. Slavens had read
them as he pushed Peterson aside, and the first two figures on the other
man's card--all that Slavens could hastily glimpse--were the same. And,
stranger still, they were the same as Hun Shanklin had recorded in
telegraphed reply to the request from Jerry that he repeat them.

That was enough to show him that there was something afoot worth while,
and to fortify him in his determination, strong in his mind every mile
of that long night ride, to file on that identical tract of land, come
of it what might.

"I'll talk to you after a while," said he.

Boyle said nothing, although the look he gave the forward man was
blasting and not without effect. The fellow fell back; something which
looked like a roll of bills passed from Boyle's hand to Axel Peterson's,
and with a jerk of the shoulder, which might have been intended as a
defiance t