“I got it,” he said, slapping his streaming breast.  “It’s all right, Glenister, I knew what delay meant so I took a long chance with the surf.”  The terrific ordeal he had undergone had blanched him to the lips, his legs wabbled uncertainly, and he would have fallen but for the young man, who thrust an arm about his waist and led him up into the town.

“I went before the Circuit Court of Appeals in ’Frisco,” he explained later, “and they issued orders allowing an appeal from this court and gave me a writ of supersedeas directed against old Judge Stillman.  That takes the litigation out of his hands altogether, and directs McNamara to turn over the Midas and all the gold he’s got.  What do you think of that?  I did better than I expected.”

Glenister wrung his hand silently while a great satisfaction came upon him.  At last this waiting was over and his peaceful yielding to injustice had borne fruit; had proven the better course after all, as the girl had prophesied.  He could go to her now with clean hands.  The mine was his again.  He would lay it at her feet, telling her once more of his love and the change it was working in him.  He would make her see it, make her see that beneath the harshness his years in the wild had given him, his love for her was gentle and true and all absorbing.  He would bid her be patient till she saw he had mastered himself, till he could come with his soul in harness,

“I am glad I didn’t fight when they jumped us,” he said.  “Now we’ll get our property back and all the money they took out—­that is, if McNamara hasn’t salted it.”

“Yes; all that’s necessary is to file the documents, then serve the Judge and McNamara.  You’ll be back on Anvil Creek to-morrow.”

Having placed their documents on record at the court-house, the two men continued to McNamara’s office.  He met them with courtesy.

“I heard you had a narrow escape this morning, Mr. Wheaton.  Too bad!  What can I do for you?”

The lawyer rapidly outlined his position and stated in conclusion: 

“I filed certified copies of these orders with the clerk of the court ten minutes ago, and now I make formal demand upon you to turn over the Midas to Messrs. Glenister and Dextry, and also to return all the gold-dust in your safe-deposit boxes in accordance with this writ.”  He handed his documents to McNamara, who tossed them on his desk without examination.

“Well,” said the politician, quietly, “I won’t do it.”

Had he been slapped in the face the attorney would not have been more astonished.

“Why—­you—­”

“I won’t do it, I said,” McNamara repeated, sharply.  “Don’t think for a minute that I haven’t gone into this fight armed for everything.  Writs of supersedeas!  Bah!” He snapped his fingers.

“We’ll see whether you’ll obey or not,” said Wheaton and when he and Glenister were outside he continued: 

“Let’s get to the Judge quick.”