eard the clamor of rude voices borne on the wind; then
plunged forward again, his flying feet seemingly weighted with lead;
and all the while an agonizing picture of Lydia, white and helpless,
facing the crowd of drunken men flitted before his eyes.

Now he had reached the wall at the rear of the gardens; had clambered
over it, dropping to his feet in the midst of a climbing rose which
clutched at him with its thorny branches; had run across an acre of
kitchen garden and leaped the low-growing hedge which divided it from
the sunken flower garden he had made for Lydia. Here were more
rosebushes and an interminable space broken by walks and a sundial,
masked by shrubs, with which he collided violently. There was no
mistaking the clamor from the front of the house; the rioters had
reached their quarry first! Not stopping to consider what one man,
single-handed and unarmed, could do against a score of drunken
opponents, the young man rounded the corner of the big house just as
the door was flung wide and the slim figure of Lydia stood outlined
against the bright interior.

"What do you want, men?" she called out, in her clear, fearless
voice. "What has happened?"

There was a confused murmur of voices in reply. Most of the men were
decent enough fellows, when sober. Some one was heard to suggest a
retreat: "No need to scare the young lady. 'Tain't her fault!"

"Aw! shut up, you coward!" shouted another. "We want our money!"

"Where did you get yer money?" demanded a third. "You tell us that,
young woman. That's what we're after!"

"Where's the old thief? ...We want Andrew Bolton!"

Then from somewhere in the darkness a pebble flung by a reckless hand
shattered a pane of glass. At sound of the crash all pretense of
decency and order seemed abandoned. The spirit of the pack broke
loose!

Just what happened from the moment when he leaped upon the portico,
wrenching loose a piece of iron pipe which formed the support of a
giant wistaria, Jim Dodge could never afterward recall in precise
detail. A sort of wild rage seized him; he struck right and left
among the dark figures swarming up the steps. There were cries,
shouts, curses, flying stones; then he had dragged Lydia inside and
bolted the heavy door between them and the ugly clamor without.

She faced him where he stood, breathing hard, his back against the
barred door.

"They were saying--" she whispered, her face still and white. "My
God! What do they think I'v