Something like one hundred years passed; then the hand slid from the door and they could hear Johnson Boller leading the sufferer gently away from the shock of his whole lifetime. Mary, her eyes closed for a moment, gripped herself and spoke very softly: "Mr. Fry, if--if you don't get that boy out of here and then find a way of sending me home--if you don't do it instantly, I'm going out there to Bob and tell him that you brought me here and kept me here all night against my will! After that, whatever happens, happens!" Life returned to Anthony's frozen legs. "I will go!" he managed to say, and he went. The brandy was already within Robert Vining, yet it seemed to have made small difference in his condition. The young man's eyes were wild and rolling; they rested on Anthony for a moment as if they had seen him before but could not quite place him. "You--you've been telephoning," he said. "Not yet," said Anthony, "but if you'll run along and do your share, I'll think up ways of helping you." "My share?" Vining echoed. Mentally, he was not more than half himself. Anthony Fry, therefore, grew very firm and very stern, pleasantly certain that Robert was paying no heed to his pallor or the uncontrollable shake that had come to his hands. "If the girl has really disappeared," he said steadily, "your part is not to be sitting here and whining for help, Robert. Why don't you get out and hustle and see if you can't get track of her? Have you gone to all her friends?" "Eh? No!" "Then go now!" said Anthony Fry. "You know her girl friends? Get after the most intimate at first--and get about it!" Here he scowled, and Robert Vining, rising, shook himself together. "You're right, Anthony," he said. "I'm an ass; I've lost my head completely this last hour. I--I caught it from her father, I think; the man's going about like an infuriated bull, swearing to kill everybody in the world if Mary isn't returned and--but you're right, old chap. Thank you for steadying me." Robert concluded bravely. "Where's my hat? I've been wearing it all this time, eh? Good-by, Anthony. Good-by, Johnson." He tried to smile at them--and he fled. This time it was Johnson Boller who turned weak at his going. Mr. Boller, smiling at his old friend in a sickly, greenish way, dropped into a chair and mopped his forehead. "Narrow squeak, Anthony!" "Yes!" Anthony agreed, with some difficulty. "I was never so scared as that in all my life!" Johnson Boller went on faintly. "I thought sure I'd have to watch it and--Anthony, it turned me so sick I could hardly stand on my feet!" "What did?" "The idea of seeing you shot down there," Mr. Boller said with a shudder. "Gad! I could picture the whole thing, Anthony! I could see him start and look at you both--I swear I could see him pull a gun from his pocket and shoot! I could see the blood spurting out of your forehead, Anthony, and hear the chicken screech, and it turned me so infernally sick----"