ghtly say, but you're either with us or ag'in' us. If you're
on our side it'll be a joy-ride. If you stick to that guy, Carshaw--"

To their ears, as to the ears of those waiting in the car at the gate,
came the sound of violent blows and the wrenching open of the door. In
that large house--in a room situated, too, on the side removed from the
road--they could not catch Carshaw's exulting cry after a peep through
the window:

"I have them! Voles and Fowle! There they are! Now you, who fought with
Funston, fight for a year's pay to be earned in a minute. Here! use this
wrench. You understand it. Use it on the head of any one who resists
you. These scoundrels must be taken red-handed."

Voles at the first alarm sprang to his feet and whipped out a revolver.
He knew that a vigorous assault was being made on the stout door.
Running to the blind of the nearest window, he saw Carshaw pull out an
iron bar by sheer strength and use it as a lever to pry open a sash.
Tempted though he was to shoot, he dared not. There might be police
outside. Murder would shatter his dreams of wealth and luxury. He must
outwit his pursuers.

Rachel Craik came running from the kitchen, alarmed by the sudden
hubbub.

"Fowle," he said to his amazed confederate, "stand them off for a minute
or two. You, Rachel, can help. You know where to find me when the coast
is clear. They cannot touch you. Remember that. They're breaking into
this house without a warrant. Bluff hard, and they cannot even frame a
charge against you if the girl is secured--and she will be if you give
me time."

Trusting more to Rachel than to vacillating Fowle, he raced up-stairs,
though his injured leg made rapid progress difficult. He ran into a room
and grabbed a small bag which lay in readiness. Then he rushed toward
the room in which Winifred and Mick the Wolf were listening with mixed
feelings to the row which had sprung up beneath.

He tried the door. It was locked. Rachel had the key in her pocket. A
trifle of that nature did not deter a man like Voles. With his shoulder
he burst the lock, coming face to face with his partner in crime, who
had grasped a poker in his serviceable hand.

"Atta-boy!" he yelled. "Down-stairs, and floor 'em as they come. You've
one sound arm. Go for 'em--they can't lay a finger on you."

Now, it was one thing to sympathize with a helpless and gentle girl, but
another to resist the call of the wild. The dominant note in Mick the
Wolf wa