He rode to the rancho and ordered one of the men to have the buckboard at the gate early next morning.  He wondered why his brother had not driven out to the ranch, being well known in Antelope and able to command credit.  Then he thought of Eleanor, and surmised that his brother possibly wished to avoid meeting her.  And as it happened, he was not mistaken.

On the evening of the following day he drove up to the Palace Hotel and inquired for his brother.  The proprietor drew him to one side.  “It’s all right for you to see him, John, but I been tryin’ to keep him in his room.  He’s—­well, he ain’t just feelin’ right to be on the street.  Sabe?”

Corliss nodded, and turning, climbed the stairs.  He knocked at a door.  There was no response.  He knocked again.

“What you want?” came in a muffled voice.

“It’s John,” said Corliss.  “Let me in.”

The door opened, and Corliss stepped into the room to confront a dismal scene.  On the washstand stood several empty whiskey bottles and murky glasses.  The bedding was half on the floor, and standing with hand braced against the wall was Will Corliss, ragged, unshaven, and visibly trembling.  His eyelids were red and swollen.  His face was white save for the spots that burned on his emaciated cheeks.

“John!” he exclaimed, and extended his hand.

Corliss shook hands with him and then motioned him to a chair.  “Well, Will, if you’re sick, this isn’t the way to get over it.”

“Brother’s keeper, eh?  Glad to see me back, eh, Jack?”

“Not in this shape.  What do you suppose Nell would think?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.  I’m sick.  That’s all.”

“Where have you been—­for the last three years?”

“A whole lot you care.  Been?  I have been everywhere from heaven to hell—­the whole route.  I’m in hell just now.”

“You look it.  Will, what can I do for you?  You want to quit the booze and straighten up.  You’re killing yourself.”

“Maybe I don’t know it!  Say, Jack, I want some dough.  I’m broke.”

“All right.  How much?”

“A couple of hundred—­for a starter.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“What do you suppose?  Not going to eat it.”

“No.  And you’re not going to drink it, either.  I’ll see that you have everything you need.  You’re of age and can do as you like.  But you’re not going to kill yourself with whiskey.”

Will Corliss stared at his brother; then laughed.

“Have one with me, Jack.  You didn’t used to be afraid of it.”

“I’m not now, but I’m not going to take a drink with you.”

“Sorry.  Well, here’s looking.”  And the brother poured himself a half-tumblerful of whiskey and gulped it down.  “Now, let’s talk business.”

Corliss smiled despite his disgust.  “All right.  You talk and I’ll listen.”