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“My what?” inquired Winthrop.

“The young fellow that was with you when we held you up that first time.”

The constable, or the chief of police as he called himself, on the principle that if there were only one policeman he must necessarily be the chief, glanced hastily over the heads of the crowd.

“Any of you holding that shoffer?” he called.

No one was holding the chauffeur.

The chauffeur had vanished.

The cell to which the constable led Winthrop was in a corner of the cellar in which formerly coal had been stored. This corner was now fenced off with boards, and a wooden door with chain and padlock.

High in the wall, on a level with the ground, was the opening, or window, through which the coal had been dumped. This window now was barricaded with iron bars. Winthrop tested the door by shaking it, and landed a heavy kick on one of the hinges. It gave slightly, and emitted a feeble groan.

“What you tryin’ to do?” demanded the constable. “That’s town property.”

In the light of the constable’s lantern, Winthrop surveyed his cell with extreme dissatisfaction.

“I call this a cheap cell,” he said.

“It’s good enough for a cheap sport,” returned the constable. It was so overwhelming a retort that after the constable had turned the key in the padlock, and taken himself and his lantern to the floor above, Winthrop could hear him repeating it to the volunteer firemen. They received it with delighted howls.

For an hour, on the three empty boxes that formed his bed, Winthrop sat, with his chin on his fists, planning the nameless atrocities he would inflict upon the village of Fairport. Compared to his tortures, those of Neuremberg were merely reprimands. Also he considered the particular punishment he would mete out to Sam Forbes for his desertion of his sister, and to Fred. He could not understand Fred. It was not like the chauffeur to think only of himself. Nevertheless, for abandoning Miss Forbes in the hour of need, Fred must be discharged. He had, with some regret, determined upon this discipline, when from directly over his head the voice of Fred hailed him cautiously.

“Mr. Winthrop,” the voice called, “are you there?”

To Winthrop the question seemed superfluous. He jumped to his feet, and peered up into the darkness.

“Where are YOU?” he demanded.

“At the window,” came the answer. “We’re in the back yard. Mr. Sam wants to speak to you.”

On Miss Forbes’s account, Winthrop gave a gasp of relief. On his own, one of savage satisfaction.

“And I want to speak to HIM!” he whispered.

The moonlight, which had been faintly shining through the iron bars of the coal chute, was eclipsed by a head and shoulders. The comfortable voice of Sam Forbes greeted him in a playful whisper.

“Hullo, Billy! You down there?”

“Where the devil did you think I was?” Winthrop answered at white heat. “Let me tell you if I was not down here I’d be punching your head.”

“That’s all right, Billy,” Sam answered soothingly. “But I’ll save you just the same. It shall never be said of Sam Forbes he deserted a comrade—-“

“Stop that! Do you know,” Winthrop demanded fiercely, “that your sister is a prisoner upstairs?”

“I do,” replied the unfeeling brother, “but she won’t be long. All the low-comedy parts are out now arranging a rescue.”

“Who are? Todd and those boys?” demanded Winthrop. “They mustn’t think of it! They’ll only make it worse. It is impossible to get your sister out of here with those drunken firemen in the building. You must wait till they’ve gone home. Do you hear me?”

“Pardon ME!” returned Sam stiffly, “but this is MY relief expedition. I have sent two of the boys to hold the bridge, like Horatius, and two to guard the motors, and the others are going to entice the firemen away from the engine house.”