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On the threshold Miss Farrar stood quite still. A swift, sinking nausea held her in a vice. Her instinct was to scream and run, but her throat had tightened and gone dry, and her limbs trembled. Opposite the door was her dressing-table, and reflected in its mirror were the features and figure of the rat-like soldier. His back was toward her. With one hand he swept the dressing-table. The other, hanging at his side, held a revolver. In a moment the panic into which Miss Farrar had been thrown passed. Her breath and blood returned, and, intent only on flight, she softly turned. On the instant the rat-faced one raised his eyes, saw her reflected in the mirror, and with an oath, swung toward her. He drew the revolver close to his cheek, and looked at her down the barrel. “Don’t move!” he whispered; “don’t scream! Where are the jewels?”

Miss Farrar was not afraid of the revolver or of the man. She did not believe either would do her harm. The idea of both the presence of the man in her room, and that any one should dare to threaten her was what filled her with repugnance. As the warm blood flowed again through her body her spirit returned. She was no longer afraid. She was, instead, indignant, furious.

With one step she was in the room, leaving the road to the door open.

“Get out of here,” she commanded.

The little man snarled, and stamped the floor. He shoved the gun nearer to her.

“The jewels, damn you!” he whispered. “Do you want me to blow your fool head off? Where are the jewels?”

“Jewels?” repeated Miss Farrar. “I have no jewels!”

“You lie!” shrieked the little man. “He said the house was full of jewels. We heard him. He said he would stay to guard the jewels.”

Miss Farrar recognized his error. She remembered Lathrop’s jest, and that it had been made while the two men were within hearing, behind the stone wall.

“It was a joke!” she cried. “Leave at once!” She backed swiftly toward the open window that looked upon the road. “Or I’ll call your sergeant!”

“If you go near that window or scream,” whispered the rat-like one, “I’ll shoot!”

A heavy voice, speaking suddenly from the doorway, shook Miss Farrar’s jangled nerves into fresh panic.

“She won’t scream,” said the voice.

In the door Miss Farrar saw the bulky form of the sergeant, blocking her escape.

Without shifting his eyes from Miss Farrar, the man with the gun cursed breathlessly at the other. “Why didn’t you keep her away?” he panted.

“An automobile stopped in front of the gate,” explained the sergeant. “Have you got them?” he demanded.

“No!” returned the other. “Nothing! She won’t tell where they are.”

The older man laughed. “Oh, yes, she’ll tell,” he whispered. His voice was still low and suave, but it carried with it the weight of a threat, and the threat, although unspoken, filled Miss Farrar with alarm. Her eyes, wide with concern, turned fearfully from one man to the other.

The sergeant stretched his hands toward her, the fingers working and making clutches in the air. The look in his eyes was quite terrifying.

“If you don’t tell,” he said slowly, “I’ll choke it out of you!”

If his intention was to frighten the girl, he succeeded admirably. With her hands clasped to her throat, Miss Farrar sank against the wall. She saw no chance of escape. The way to the door was barred, and should she drop to the garden below, from the window, before she could reach the road the men would overtake her. Even should she reach the road, the house nearest was a half mile distant.

The sergeant came close, his fingers opening and closing in front of her eyes. He raised his voice to a harsh, bellowing roar. “I’m going to make you tell!” he shouted. “I’m going to choke it out of you!”

Although she was alone in the house, although on every side the pine woods encompassed her, Miss Farrar threw all her strength into one long, piercing cry for help. And upon the instant it was answered. From the hall came the swift rush of feet. The rat-like one swung toward it. From his revolver came a report that shook the room, a flash and a burst of smoke, and through it Miss Farrar saw Lathrop hurl himself. He dived at the rat-like one, and as on the foot-ball field he had been taught to stop a runner, flung his arms around the other’s knees. The legs of the man shot from under him, his body cut a half circle through the air, and the part of his anatomy to first touch the floor was his head. The floor was of oak, and the impact gave forth a crash like the smash of a base-ball bat, when it drives the ball to centre field. The man did not move. He did not even groan. In his relaxed fingers the revolver lay, within reach of Lathrop’s hand. He fell upon it and, still on his knees, pointed it at the sergeant.