“We will give you one minute to come out. If you are not out here on the porch by that time we’ll smash your damned doors in and we’ll drag you out.” Oliver glanced over his shoulder. Mrs. Grimes and Lizzie, with blanched faces, had come to his bedroom door. “Telephone for the police, Lizzie,” he cried out sharply. “No! Wait! Get out of the house yourselves. Don’t think of me. You mustn’t be here if that mob breaks in and—” He did not finish the sentence. In the middle of it he uttered a shout of alarm and sprang toward the bureau on the opposite side of the room. There was a rush of footsteps in the hall, then the two women were flung aside and into the room leaped three, four, half a dozen men. As Lizzie fell back against the wall, she shrieked: “The back door! I forgot to—” Oliver knocked the first man sprawling, but the others were upon him like an avalanche.... As they led him, now unresisting, from the room his wild, beaten gaze fell upon the huddled form of Serepta Grimes lying inert in the hall. “For God’s sake, be decent enough to look after her,” he panted. “Don’t leave her lying—” The crash of splintering blows upon the outer door, the jangle of shattered glass, the suddenly released howls of human hounds—pandemonium so devilish that Oliver’s fearless heart quailed and he began to cry for mercy. “Don’t kill me like this! Don’t! Don’t! Give me a chance! Let me speak! Oh, my God!” Then rage succeeded terror. “Let go of me, you dirty dogs! Let go of me, Charlie! Steve! God damn your souls to hell—give me a chance!” They dragged him down the stairs. The front door gave way as they neared the bottom and over the wreckage stumbled men with sledges, grunting, snarling men whose teeth showed between stretched, drawn lips, and who stopped short at sight of those descending. “We’ve got him,” shouted one of his captors. “Make way! Let us through!” There was no light in the hall, only that from the open bedroom door above. Some one below flashed an electric torch on the face of the captive. It was ghastly white. “It’s him, all right,” cried several voices. “Open up! We’ve got him! Make way out there!” Out of the house and down into the yard they hurried him. There they paused long enough to tie his hands securely behind his back. An awed silence had fallen upon the crowd—the shouts ceased, curses died on men’s lips. They had him! Tragedy was at hand. More than one heart quaked in the presence of it, and more than one stomach turned in revolt. It was grim business that lay ahead of them and they were good citizens! “No lights!” shouted a loud-voiced man. “Come on! Hustle up! Let’s get it over with.” Oliver strained at his bonds. His chest heaved, his throat swelled. “In Christ’s name, men—what are you going to do with me?” he cried out in a strange, piercing voice. “Shut up!” “You are making a horrible mistake,” cried the captive, as he stumbled along between the men who held his arms. “You are committing the most horrible—”