This 'ere 's for the relief of widders and orphans.
Make it sudden. Each one of you gents step out to the center of the
room and leave five dollars. And step back when you 've put it there.
Ladies stay where you 're at!"

Again a laugh. Fairchild turned to his companion, as she nudged him.
"There, it's your turn."

Out to the center of the floor went Fairchild, the rest of the victims
laughing and chiding him. Back he came in mock fear, his hands in the
air. On down the line went the contributing men. Then the bandit
rushed forward, gathered up the bills and gold pieces, shoved them in
his pockets, and whirled toward the door.

"The purpose of this 'ere will be in the paper to-morrow," he
announced. "And don't you follow me to find out! Back there!"

Two or three laughing men had started forward, among them a fiddler,
who had joined the line, and who now rushed out in flaunting bravery,
brandishing his violin as though to brain the intruder. Again the
command:

"Back there--get back!"

Then the crowd recoiled. Flashes had come from the masked man's guns,
the popping of electric light globes above and the showering of glass
testifying to the fact that they had contained something more than mere
wadding. Somewhat dazed, the fiddler continued his rush, suddenly to
crumple and fall, while men milled and women screamed. A door slammed,
the lock clicked, and the crowd rushed for the windows. The hold-up
had been real after all,--instead of a planned, joking affair. On the
floor the fiddler lay gasping--and bleeding. And the bandit was gone.

All in a moment the dance hall seemed to have gone mad. Men were
rushing about and shouting; panic-stricken women clawed at one another
and fought their way toward a freedom they could not gain. Windows
crashed as forms hurtled against them; screams sounded. Hurriedly, as
the crowd massed thicker, Fairchild raised the small form of Anita in
his arms and carried her to a chair, far at one side.

"It's all right now," he said, calming her. "Everything 's over--look,
they 're helping the fiddler to his feet. Maybe he 's not badly hurt.
Everything 's all right--"

And then he straightened. A man had unlocked the door from the outside
and had rushed into the dance hall, excited, shouting. It was Maurice
Rodaine.

"I know who it was," he almost screamed. "I got a good look at
him--jumped out of the window and almost headed him off. He took off
his mask outs