going to be some more
witnesses. Keep your jury together."

A few moments later the long shrieking whistle of Number Five was heard
as she came up out of the Paw Paw Creek bottoms, climbing the hill at
the brick yards, and swung around the curve through South Spring Valley
into the stretch of straight track leading down to the station. As the
grinding brakes brought the heavy train finally to a standstill, three
or four young men swung down from the day coaches--reporters from
outside towns.

Don Lane elbowed his way to the edge of the platform. His eye was
searching eagerly along the train exits for someone else--someone else
whom he longed and yet dreaded to see.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE NAME OF THE LAW

Don's moody face suddenly lighted up. A young woman was stepping down
from one of the cars at the farther end of the train, the porter
assisting her to the footstool. Now she was coming steadily along the
edge of the platform, carrying in one hand a trim little bag, in the
other a trim little umbrella. Now she was looking about, expectant. It
was she--Anne!

His heart leaped out to her, his love rose surgingly at sight of her,
sweet and beautiful as she seemed, and all so fit for love of man.

A tall young girl she was, who walked with head well up and the
suggestion of tennis about her--an indefinable something of chic also
about her, as indicative of physical well-being as that suggested by
some of the young faces on the magazine covers of the day; which would
explain why in her college Anne Oglesby always was known as "the
magazine girl." She had straightforward gray eyes, a fine mouth of much
sweetness. Above her forehead rose a deep and narrow ruff of dense brown
hair, golden brown. Trim, yet well-appointed, she was one of those types
whom unhesitatingly we class as aristocrats. A young woman fit for any
higher class, qualified for any rank, she seemed--and a creature utterly
apart from the crowd that now jostled her on the narrow platform.

Her eyes, too, lighted up at sight of the young man who now hurried
forward to meet her, but no unseemly agitation marked her own personal
conduct in public. Demure, clean, cool and sweet, all in hand, she did
not hasten nor hold back.

Dieudonne Lane had told his mother that never yet had he kissed Anne
Oglesby. Now, at sight of her and at the thought that almost at once
they must part forever, a great rebellion rose in his heart. He stepped
forward swiftly,