Blount had a very pleasant drive across country, with no mishap worse than a blown-out tire and a little carbureter trouble.  Being a motorist of parts, neither the accident nor the needed readjustment detained him very long, and by the middle of the afternoon he was racing down the smooth northern road, with the spires and tall buildings of the capital fairly in sight.

Not to let gratitude lag too far behind the service rendered, he drove Blatchford’s car to the garage nearest the freight station, left instructions to have it shipped back to Lewiston by the first train, and promptly went in search of Gantry.  The traffic manager was not in his office, but Blount found him at the Railway Club.

“Just a word, Dick,” he began, when he had overtaken his man pointing for the buffet.  “Kittredge put up a job on me, and I think you helped him.  I had to borrow an automobile to come back in from Lewiston.  It’s down at the Central Garage, and I have given Bankston, the garage man, orders to ship it back to Mr. Blatchford, of the ‘Little Mary.’  I wish you’d phone your freight agent to see that it is properly taken care of, and that the freight bill is sent to me.”

Gantry made no reply, but he went obediently to the house telephone and gave the necessary instructions.  The thing done, he turned shortly upon Blount, scowling morosely.

“Come on in and let’s have a drink,” he said.

Blount marked the brittleness of tone and the half-quarrelsome light in the eyes which were a little bloodshot.

“No, Dick; you’ve had one too many already,” he objected firmly.

Gantry put his back against the wall of the corridor.

“No,” he rasped; “I’m not drunk, but I’m ready to fight you to a finish, and for once in a way I’m going to get in the first lick.  You’ve been bluffing me from the start, and you’re going to try it again.  It won’t go this time; you’ve got to show me!”

If Blount hesitated it was only because he was trying to determine whether or not the traffic manager was business-fit.  Gantry comprehended perfectly, and his laugh was derisive and a trifle bitter.

“You’re sizing me up and asking yourself if I’m too far gone to be worth while,” he jeered.  “If I couldn’t stand any more liquid grief than you can, I would have been down and out years ago.  Show your hand, Evan—­if you have any to show.”

Blount hesitated no longer.  Taking Gantry’s arm, he led him out of the club and around the block to the Sierra National Bank.  It was after banking hours, but the side door giving access to the safe-deposit department was still open.  With the traffic manager at his elbow, Blount asked the custodian for his private box, got it, and led the way to one of the cell-like retiring rooms.  Gantry proved his capacity for transacting business by turning on the lights, locking the door, and squaring himself in a chair at one side of the tiny writing-table.