"I don't know," said Sheriff Cowles. "If I did, I wouldn't tell you." And indeed he spoke only truth in both these statements. "I know!" screamed a high voice in the middle of the man pack. "He's maybe up at her house--'Rory Lane's. Let's go search the place--we'll get him yet!" It was enough. The mob, thus resisted, disappointed, began to mutter, to talk now, in a low, hoarse half roar of united voices. They turned away on a new trail. Some broke into shouts as they began to hurry down the brick walk of the jail yard. They jostled and crowded in the street, as they came into the corner of the public square. A general outcry arose as they caught sight of the light in the window of Aurora Lane's little home, a half block down the street, beyond the corner of the square. Aurora heard the sound of their feet coming down the sidewalk. She heard the noise at her gate--heard the crash as the gate was kicked off its new-mended hinges--heard the men crowd up her little walk, heard their feet clumping on the little gallery floor. Her heart stopped. She stood white-faced, her hands clasped. What was it? What did they mean? Were they going to kill her boy? Had they killed him? Were they going to tell her that? Were they going to kill her, too? "Come on out!" she heard someone calling to her. It seemed to her that she must go. In some strange hypnosis, her feet began to move, unsanctioned by her volition.... She stood at the door facing them all, her eyes large, her face showing her distress, her query, her new terror. On her face indeed was written now the whole story of her despair, her failure, her terrible unhappiness. She had aged by years, these last twenty-four hours. Now sheer terror was written there also. The mob! The lynchers! The avengers! What had they not and more than once done in this little savage town?... A picture rose before her mind ... a horrible picture out of the past. Wide-eyed, she caught at the throat of her gown, caught at the covering of her bosom--and then went at bay, as does any despairing creature that has been pressed too hard. She looked down at them. Those nearest to her were masked. Back of them rose groups of shoulders, rough clad, hats pulled down.... No, she did not know one of them; she did not recognize even a face--or was not sure she had done so. They jostled and shifted and pushed forward. "No! No! Go back! Go on away!" she cried, pale, her eyes starting. And again she called aloud, piteously, on that God who seemed to have forsaken her. "Come on out!" cried a voice, thick and husky. "Come on out, and hurry up about it. Bring him out--we know he's here. We want Don Lane, and we're going to git him--or we'll git you. Damn you, look out, or we'll git you both! Where's that boy, that killed the marshal?"