orn, ghastly with rage, came
bare-headed out of the saloon. He ran across the street crying:

"You she devil, what do you--"

But he stopped without finishing his sentence. The men above looked down
at what he was looking at and saw a child--Tom Van Dorn's child, Lila,
in the car.

"My God, Margaret--what does this mean?" he almost whispered in terror.

"It means," returned the strident voice of the woman, "that when you
sent for your car and the driver told me he was going to Adamses--I knew
why--from what you said, and now, by God," she screamed, "give me that
boy--or this girl goes to the union men as their shield."

Van Dorn did not speak. His mouth seemed about to begin, but she stopped
him, crying:

"And if you touch her I'll kill you both. And the child goes first."

The woman had lost control of her voice. She swung a pistol toward the
child.

"Give me that boy!" she shrieked, and Van Dorn, dumb and amazed, stood
staring at her. "Tell them to bring that boy before I count five: One,
two," she shouted, "three--"

"Oh, Joe," called Van Dorn as his whole body began to tremble, "bring
the Adams boy quick--here!" His voice broke into a shriek with nervous
agitation and the word "here" was uttered with a piercing yell, that
made the crowd wince.

Calvin brought Kenyon out and sent him across the street. Grant opened a
window and called out: "Get into the car with Lila, Kenyon--please."

The woman in the car cried: "Grant, Grant, is that you up there? They
were going to murder the boy, Grant. Do you want his child up there?"

She looked up and the arc light before the hotel revealed her tragic,
shattered face--a wreck of a face, crumpled and all out of line and
focus as the flickering glare of the arc-light fell upon it. "Shall I
send you his child?" she babbled hysterically, keeping the revolver
pointed at Lila--"His child that he's silly about?"

Van Dorn started for her car, but Brotherton at the window bellowed
across a gun sight: "Move an inch and I'll shoot."

Grant called down: "Margaret, take Lila and Kenyon home, please."

Then, with Mr. Brotherton's gun covering the father in the street below,
the driver of the car turned it carefully through the parting crowd, and
was gone as mysteriously and as quickly as he came.

"Now," cried Mr. Brotherton, still sighting down the gun barrel pointed
at Van Dorn, standing alone in the middle of the street, "you make
tracks, and don't you go to that salo