get it I must quit the waterworks fight and go to the meeting to-night
and surrender. I had no right to decide that alone. It is our
question, Molly. We are bound by the old life--and we must take this
last stand together."

The woman shrank from Hendricks with horror on her face, as he
personified her danger. She could not reply at once, but stood staring
at him in the dusk. As she stared, the feeling that she had seen it
all before in a dream came over her, and the premonition that some
awful thing was impending shook her to the marrow.

"Molly, we have no time to spare," he urged. "I must answer Bemis in
ten minutes--I can do it by phone. But say what you think."

"Why--why--why--Bob--let me think," she whispered, as one trying
to speak in a dream, and that also seemed familiar to her. "It's
typhoid for my poor who died like sheep last year," she cried, "or my
good name and yours, is it, Bob? Is it, Bob?" she repeated.

He put his hand to his forehead again in the old way she remembered so
well--to temples that were covered with thin gray hair--and
answered, "Yes, Molly, that's our price."

Those were the last words that she seemed to have heard before; after
that the dialogue was all new to her. She was silent a few agonized
seconds and then said, "I know what you think, Bob; you are for my
poor; you are brave." He did not answer, fearing to turn the balance.
As she sank into a porch chair a rustling breeze moved the lilac
plumes and brought their perfume to her. From down the avenue came the
whir of wheels and the hurrying click of a horse's hoofs. At length
she rose, and said tremulously: "I stand with you, Bob. May God make
the blow as light as He can."

They did not notice that a buggy had drawn up on the asphalt in front
of the house. Hendricks put out his hand and cried, "Oh,
Molly--Molly--Molly--" and she took it in both of hers and pressed
it to her lips, and as Adrian Brownwell passed the lilac thicket in
the gathering darkness that is what he saw. Hendricks was halfway down
the veranda steps before he was aware that Brownwell was running up
the walk at them, pistol in hand, like one mad. Before the man could
fire, Hendricks was upon him, and had Brownwell's two hands gripped
tightly in one of his, holding them high in the air. The little man
struggled.

"Don't scream--for God's sake, don't scream," cried Hendricks to the
woman in a suppressed voice. Then he commanded her harshly, "Go in the
hous