Until something happened he could not solve the problem before him. He could be of no use to Eve Strayer and to Stormont until he found out what Quintana was going to do. He could be of little use anyway unless he got into the house, where two rifles might hold out against five. There was no use in trying to get to Ghost Lake for assistance. He felt that whatever was about to happen would come with a rush. It would be all over before he had gone five minutes. No; the only thing to do was to stay where he was. As for his pledge to the little Grand Duchess, that was always in his mind. Sooner or later, he was going to make good his pledge. He knew Quintana and his gang were here to find the Flaming Jewel. Had he not encountered Quintana, his own errand had been the same. For Smith had started for Clinch's prepared to reveal himself to Stormont, and then, masked to the eyes -- and to save Eve from a broken heart, and Clinch from States Prison -- he had meant to rob the girl at pistol-point. It was the only way to save Clinch, the only way to save the pride of his blindly loyal girl. For the arrest of Clinch meant ruin to both, and Smith realised it thoughtfully. * * * * * A slight sound form one of the out-houses -- a sort of wagon-shed -- attracted his attention. Through the frost-highlighted rag-weeds a faint glow appeared in the shed. There was a crackling noise. The glow grew pinker. * * * * * III Inside Clinch's home Eve awoke with a start. Her ears were filled with a strange, rushing, cracking noise. A rosy glare danced and shook outside her windows. As she sprang to the floor on bandaged feet, a shrill scream burst out of the ruddy darkness -- unearthly, horrible; and there came a thunderous battering from the burn. The girl tore open her bedroom door. "Jack!" she cried in a terrified voice. "The barn's on fire!" "Good Good!" he said, "-- my horse!" He had already sprung from his chair outside her door. Now he ran downstairs, and she heard bolt and chain clash at the kitchen door and his spurred boots land on the porch. "Oh," she whimpered, snatching a blanket wrapper from a peg and struggling into it. "Oh, the poor house! Jack! Jack! I'm coming to help! Don't risk your life! I'm coming -- I'm coming----" Terror clutched her as she stumbled downstairs on bandaged feet. As she reached the door a great flare of light almost blinded her. "Jack!" And at the same instant she saw him struggling with three masked men in the glare of the wagon-shed afire. His rifle stood in the corridor outside her door. With one bound she was on the stairs again. There came the crash and splinter of wood and glass from the kitchen, and a man with a handkerchief over his face caught her on the landing.