“Oh, no, not here,” protested Johnson, stubbornly. “Do you want them to see you in my cabin?” she cried reproachfully, trying to lift him to his feet. “Oh, hurry, hurry...!” With the utmost difficulty Johnson rose to his feet and catching the rounds of the ladder he began to ascend. But after going up a few rounds he reeled and almost fell off, gasping: “I can’t make it--no, I can’t....” “Yes, you can,” encouraged the Girl; and then, simultaneously with another loud knock on the door: “You’re the man I love an’ you must--you’ve got to show me the man that’s in you. Oh, go on, go on, jest a step an’ you’ll git there.” “But I can’t,” came feebly from the voice above. Nevertheless, the next instant he fell full length on the boarded floor of the loft with the hand out-stretched in which was the handkerchief he had been staunching the blood from the wound in his side. With a whispered injunction that he was all right and was not to move on any account, the Girl put the ladder back in its place. But no sooner was this done than on looking up she caught sight of the stained handkerchief. She called softly up to him to take it away, explaining that the cracks between the boards were wide and it could plainly be seen from below. “That’s it!” she exclaimed on observing that he had changed the position of his hand. “Now, don’t move!” Finally, with the lighted candle in her hand, the Girl made a quick survey of the room to see that nothing was in sight that would betray her lover’s presence there, and then throwing open the door she took up such a position by it that it made it impossible for anyone to get past her without using force. “You can’t come in here, Jack Rance,” she said in a resolute voice. “You can tell me what you want from where you are.” Roughly, almost brutally, Rance shoved her to one side and entered. “No more Jack Rance. It’s the Sheriff coming after Mr. Johnson,” he said, emphasizing each word. The Girl eyed him defiantly. “Yes, I said Mr. Johnson,” reiterated the Sheriff, cocking the gun that he held in his hand. “I saw him coming in here.” “It’s more ’n I did,” returned the Girl, evenly, and bolted the door. “Do you think I’d want to shield a man who tried to rob me?” she asked, facing him. Ignoring the question, Rance removed the glove of his weaponless hand and strode to the curtains that enclosed the Girl’s bed and parted them. When he turned back he was met by a scornful look and the words: “So, you doubt me, do you? Well, go on--search the place. But this ends your acquaintance with The Polka. Don’t you ever speak to me again. We’re through.” Suddenly there came a smothered groan from the man in the loft; Rance wheeled round quickly and brought up his gun, demanding: “What’s that? What’s that?”