“Stay with him, dear,” said Mrs. Varney to Caroline, “and I will go and call her.” “No,” said Wilfred, “I want to see her alone.” Wondering much at this move of her boy-lover, but somehow feeling that Wilfred represented his father and the law, Caroline, after one long look at his pale but composed face, turned and followed Mrs. Varney out of the room. CHAPTER XVIII CAPTAIN THORNE JUSTIFIES HIMSELF After the two women had left him, Wilfred stood motionless for a moment, and then sat wearily down to rest. Scarcely had he done so when he heard shouts far outside in the street, the heavy trampling of feet, cries, directions, orders. He rose and walked over to the window. The cries were growing louder and the footsteps more distinct. Men were approaching the house rapidly, he could tell that they were running. What could they be? What was toward? A suspicion flashed into his mind. It had hardly found lodgment there when Thorne sprang upon the porch, leaped across it, and burst through the other front window into the long room. A pedestal with a bust of Washington on it was standing between the windows. As Thorne sprang back from the window, he knocked against it. It fell to the floor with a tremendous crash. He stood staring a moment toward the window, listening while the noise of the running feet died away in the distance. It seemed that he had distanced his pursuers or eluded them for the time being. It could only be for a moment, however; he had other things to think of. Well, that moment would be enough; it was all he required. He turned to go down the room, only to find himself confronted by the boy. It is hard to say which was the more surprised of the two—Thorne at seeing Wilfred, or Wilfred at Thorne’s appearance. The latter’s face was pale, his breath was coming rapidly, he was bareheaded. His brow was covered with sweat, and he had the hunted, desperate look of a man at the very end of his resources. Neither at first said anything to the other. It was Thorne who first recovered himself. He sought to pass by the boy, but Wilfred seized him. “Halt!” he cried; “you are under arrest.” “Wait a moment!” gasped out Thorne; “and I will go with you.” As he spoke he shook himself loose from the weak grasp of the wounded young man, and started down the room. “Halt, I say!” cried Wilfred. “You are my prisoner.” “All right, all right,” said Thorne quietly; “your prisoner, anything you like. Here,”—he drew his revolver from his pocket and pushed it into the boy’s hand; “take this, shoot the life out of me, if you wish; but give me a chance to see my brother first.” “Your brother?” “Yes. He was shot here to-night. I want one look at his face; that’s all.” “Where is he?” “Maybe they put him in the room across the hall yonder.” “What would he be doing there?” asked Wilfred, not yet apprehending the situation from Thorne’s remarks.