en as he stood there speechless, the plan began to work toward its
well-calculated end. Manuel's friends started to harangue the crowd.
They were growling hoarse invectives, shaking their fists in the
direction of the wood, fanning the pent-up fury of the mob into a
whirlwind that would sweep everything before it. Once the tide turned
there would be no stopping it until Sancho Mendez was torn to pieces. He
would shriek his innocence into deaf ears. And that was Manuel's game.

Percival's heart leaped with joy as he saw the armed force under
Lieutenant Platt move swiftly into a position barring the way to the
woods. He thrilled with a mighty pride in the shrewd intelligence and
resourcefulness of this trained fighting-man from the far-off homeland.

Manuel Crust was turning away to mingle with the crowd. Quick as a
flash, Percival was down from the steps and at the "Portugee's" side. He
grasped the man's arm.

"I've got a gun against your back," he cried in fierce suppressed tones.
"Stand still and keep your mouth shut, or I'll drill a hole through you.
You're safe if you do as I tell you, Crust. I'm onto your little game.
I'm not saying you are the guilty man, but you know who he is,--and it
won't work."

Manuel Crust was as rigid as a block of stone. He did not even turn his
head to look into the face of the man who held him.

Michael Malone and Landover were at Percival's side in an instant. From
their position on the steps they could see what was not visible to
the crowd beyond,--the revolver that was pressed against the small of
Crust's back.

"Cover this man," whispered Percival to Malone. "Shoot if he opens his
mouth."

Malone's revolver was jammed against the "Portugee's" back, and Percival
sprang back up the steps.

Manuel Crust shot a look of surprise at Abel Landover.

"What the hell--" he began, but choked off the words at a command from
Malone. While Percival was rapidly calling out orders from above, he
broke out recklessly again, addressing the stern-faced banker.

"Are you my friend or not?" he snarled. "What kind of a man are you?
Speak up! Tell them I'm all right."

"Keep quiet," warned Malone.

Landover's eyes met the searching, questioning gaze of the Portuguese.
Manuel Crust apparently was satisfied with what he read in them, for a
quick gleam of confidence leaped into his own. His chest swelled with a
tremendous intake of breath.

The remarkable personality,--or perhaps the magnetism