The afternoon passed, and the dusk of evening came. Those of the townspeople who were still hanging about the square went home to supper. Unless a man could hire or borrow a horse there was not much temptation to start off on a wild-goose chase, which, after all, might end only at Barrow's Saw Mills. Fortunately for him, Dan Oakley had gone to Chicago that morning, intending to see Holloway and resign. In view of what had happened it was impossible for him to remain in Antioch, nor could General Cornish expect him to. Milton McClintock was at supper with his family, when Mrs. Stapleton, who lived next door, broke in upon them without ceremony, crying, excitedly: “They've got him, and they're going to lynch him!” Then she as suddenly disappeared. McClintock, from where he sat, holding a piece of bread within an inch of his lips, and his mouth wide open to receive it, could see her through the window, her gray hair dishevelled and tossed about her face, running from house to house, a gaunt rumor in flapping calico skirts. He sprang to his feet when he saw her vanish around the corner of Lou Bentick's house across the way. “You keep the children in, Mary,” he said, sharply. “Don't let them into the street.” And, snatching up his hat and coat, he made for the door, but his wife was there ahead of him and threw her arms about his neck. “For God's sake, Milt, stay with the boys and me!” she ejaculated. “You don't know what may happen!” Outside they heard the trampling of many feet coming nearer and nearer. They listened breathlessly. “You don't know what may happen!” she repeated. “Yes, I do, and they mustn't do it!” unclasping her hands. “Jim will be needing help.” The sheriff was his wife's brother. “He's promised me he'd hang the old man himself, or no one else should.” There was silence now in the street. The crowd had swept past the house. “But the town's full of strangers. You can't do anything, and Jim can't!” “We can try. Look out for the children!” And he was gone. Mrs. McClintock turned to the boys, who were still at the table. “Go up-stairs to your room and stay there until I tell you to come down,” she commanded, peremptorily. “There, don't bother me with questions!” For Joe, the youngest boy, was already whimpering. The other two, with white, scared faces, sat bolt upright in their chairs. Some danger threatened; they didn't know what this danger was, and their very ignorance added to their terror. “Do what I say!” she cried. At this they left the table and marched towards the stairs. Joe found courage to say: “Ain't you coming, too? George's afraid.” But his mother did not hear him. She was at the window closing the shutters. In the next yard she saw old Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Stapleton's mother, carrying her potted plants into the house and scolding in a shrill, querulous voice.