for the original record!"

"This is the original record." Again the Judge tried to make his voice
ring sincerely, and again he failed. His one mistake had not hardened him
and judicial dignity could not help him to conceal his guilty knowledge.
He winced as he felt Trevison's burning gaze on him, and could not meet
the young man's eyes, boring like metal points into his consciousness.
Trevison sprang forward and seized him by the shoulders.

"By God--you know it isn't the original!"

The Judge succeeded in meeting Trevison's eyes, but his age, his
vacillating will, his guilt, could not combat the overpowering force and
virility of this volcanic youth, and his gaze shifted and fell.

He heard Trevison catch his breath--shrilling it into his lungs in one
great sob--and then he stood, white and shaking, beside the desk, looking
at Trevison as the young man went out of the door--a laugh on his lips,
mirthless, bitter, portending trouble and violence.

* * * * *

Corrigan was sitting at his desk in the bank building when Trevison
entered the front door. The big man seemed to have been expecting his
visitor, for just before the latter appeared at the door Corrigan took a
pistol from a pocket and laid it on the desk beside him, placing a sheet
of paper over it. He swung slowly around and faced Trevison, cold interest
in his gaze. He nodded shortly as Trevison's eyes met his.

In a dozen long strides Trevison was at his side. The young man was pale,
his lips were set, he was breathing fast, his nostrils were dilated--he
was at that pitch of excitement in which a word, a look or a movement
brings on action, instantaneous, unrecking of consequences. But he
exercised repression that made the atmosphere of the room tingle with
tension of the sort that precedes the clash of mighty forces--he
deliberately sat on one corner of Corrigan's desk, one leg dangling, the
other resting on the floor, one hand resting on the idle leg, his body
bent, his shoulders drooping a little forward. His voice was dry and
light--Patrick Carson would have said his grin was tiger-like.

"So that's the kind of a whelp you are!" he said.

Corrigan caught his breath; his hands clenched, his face reddened darkly.
He shot a quick glance at the sheet of paper under which he had placed the
pistol. Trevison interpreted it, brushed the paper aside, disclosing the
weapon. His lips curled; he took the pistol, "broke