The seconds seemed like hours to Philip Way and no less so to the three in the car who had heard the frightful scream. Suddenly there came a wild cry, like violent, threatening anger, like the howl of a wolf at bay. And then---- "Close in!" It was the voice of Bob Rack, and what a contrast with the other! It might have been a father calling a son to breakfast, so cool, collected, calm it was. Instantly Way rushed forward through the dark. _Close in!_ Yes, but where? How? Soon he found himself groping for the door at the side porch. A feeble light shone from the kitchen. With a crash the door was suddenly flung open. A heavy figure leaped forth. Phil threw himself forward, arms outstretched, just as many a time he had tackled on the gridiron, and the heavy body went tumbling to the ground beside the doorstep, Way with it, but keeping the uppermost position. "Nicely done, Philip, nicely!" No disturbed note, no ruffled sound, no excitement whatever,--just Bob Rack saying a word or two in his calm and tranquil way, both then and an instant later: "Sit up, Adam! Let him rise, Phil. I think we were here just in good season. You see how Mr. Peek is, Phil,--back there in the front room. You'll find another lamp in the kitchen, no doubt." Nothing surprised Phil more, perhaps, than the effect of the detective's low and even tones upon himself. Though panting for breath, after the recent struggle and his exertion, he noticed that he experienced no sense of fear or apprehension. He found a lamp on a low mantel and lighted it. As he went toward the room adjoining, he heard Mr. Rack call cheerily, "Light up the car, boys! Drive up to the yard here, if you will." The scene Phil discovered in the front room would have been horrifying but for the calm upon him, to which allusion has just been made. Mr. Peek, dressed as if for work, sat on the edge of the bed, his face covered by his hands while blood stained his fingers and dripped, like the dropping of water, upon the oil-cloth covering the floor. Hastily Way helped the old man to rise. He wanted the outer air he said--his chair near the kitchen door. The lad led him as he wished, then brought water and a towel. Helping himself, then, Mr. Peek bathed an ugly wound above and to the left of his left eyebrow. A revolver in his hand, Mr. Rack sat on the lower steps of the porch. His prisoner sat on the ground before him and the detective had taken the precaution of slipping handcuffs upon him. Billy, Paul and Dave had now arrived upon the scene, but not one ventured a word. "Are you able to ride to town, Mr. Peek?" asked Mr. Rack. "You'll be so much better there than here."