Scouts, creeping up to the house, had witnessed the departure of Oliver’s guests. Like swift, scarcely visible shadows they sped back through the darkness of the swamp road with their report. Whispers swelled into hoarse, guttural mutterings as the mob, headed by its set-faced, scowling leaders, left the swale and started on its deadly march. Followed the shuffle of a multitude of feet through dry grass and over the loose surface of the dirt road; the harsh breathing of hundreds of throats through tense nostrils or open, sag-lipped mouths; the swish and rustle of dead leaves; in all, the hushed thunder of men in motion. The leaders—two men from the hardware store of Oliver Baxter!—strode out in front, crowded close by the swift-moving horde that from time to time almost overran them in its eagerness to have the dirty business over with. There were guns and axes and sledge-hammers in the hands of men at the head of the column. Sight of the lighted upstairs windows threw the mob into a frenzy. They had come to kill and their prey was up there behind a thin barricade of glass and parchment-colored linen! And they were near three hundred strong! A few scattered ill-timed shouts, were checked by a mighty, sibilant hiss that swept through the crowd; those who had ignored strict orders fell back into pinched silence. Quickly the house was surrounded. No avenue of escape was left unguarded. A small, detached group advanced toward the porch, above the roof of which were lights in the windows of what every one knew to be young Oliver Baxter’s bedroom. A loud voice called out: “Oliver Baxter!” The hush of death settled upon the crowd. Even the breathing seemed to have ceased. A window shade flew up in one of the windows and the figure of a man stood fully revealed. He stooped, his face close to the pane as he peered intently out into the blackness below. Shading his eyes with one hand, he continued his search of the night. He was without coat or vest; his white shirt was open at the throat. A man in the crowd below took a fresh grip on the rope he carried in his hand. Again the loud, firm voice: “Come out! We want to see you, Oliver Baxter.” Oliver raised the window and leaned out. “Who is it? What do you want?” he demanded. “We are your father’s friends,” came the reply. “That’s all you need to know. Come out!” “What have you got down there? A mob? I’ll see you in hell before I’ll come out! If you’re after me, you’ll have to come and get me. But I warn you! I’ve got a gun up here and, so help me God, I’ll shoot to kill. I’m not afraid of you. Wait till to-morrow, men. You will be glad if you do. It is not my father’s body they found. It will be proved to you. Go home, for God’s sake, and don’t attempt to do this thing you are—” A deep growl rose from a hundred throats, stilled almost instantly as the clear voice of the leader rang out again.