longer. Into your car and on your way."

"Thank you, young man," the Colonel answered, and there was a
metallic ring in his voice. He looked at his watch in the glare of a
torch. "Plenty of time," he murmured. "Curfew shall not ring to-
night." Quite deliberately he climbed into the Mayor's late source of
woe and breezed away.

Colonel Pennington did not at once return to his home, however.
Instead, he drove up to the business centre of the town. The streets
were deserted, but one saloon--the Sawdust Pile--was still open.

Pennington strode through the bar and into the back room, where a
number of poker-games were in progress. For a moment he stood, his
cold, ophidian glance circling the room until it came to rest on no
less a personage than the Black Minorca, an individual with whom the
reader has already had some slight acquaintance. It will be recalled
that the Black Minorca led the futile rush against Bryce Cardigan
that day in Pennington's woods.

The Colonel approached the table where the Black Minorca sat thumbing
the edges of his cards, and touched the cholo on the shoulder. The
Black Minorca turned, and Pennington nodded to him to follow;
whereupon the latter cashed in his chips and joined his employer on
the sidewalk. Here a whispered conversation ensued, and at its
conclusion the Black Minorca nodded vigorously.

"Sure!" he assured the Colonel. "I'll fix 'em good and plenty."

Together Pennington and the Black Minorca entered the automobile and