Dick paused at the foot of the steps and looked around. In an instant he made out the familiar figure of Beveridge a dozen yards away. The special agent was standing over a prostrate man, one hand gripping a revolver, the other fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. The sweat was glistening on his face, his collar and tie hung down his breast, his coat was torn clear across the back. Dick joined him, and knelt over the man on the ground. “We've wasted time enough on him,” said Beveridge, catching his breath. “Who--oh, it's McGlory! Is--is he--” “Shouldn't wonder. Help me get a rail, will you?” They started without further words toward the barn-yard fence. “Hold on,” said Dick. “There's that cord-wood we used on the front door.” “That will do.” So they went back and picked up the heavy stick. At this moment Harper came running up, his shoe in his hand. “I didn't know you was going to be in such a thundering hurry to begin the shooting, Mr. Beveridge. I 'most cut my foot to pieces running up here.” “Come along, Dick,” said Beveridge. “Good Lord!” gasped Harper, suddenly taking in the figure of the special agent. “What they been doing to you?” But Beveridge gave no heed to the question. “Stay here at the steps, Harper, and if any more come up, don't let 'em get away from you.” With the cord-wood on his shoulder, he entered the house and started up the stairs. But Van Deelen hurried after him and caught his arm. “Well, what do you want?” “You needn't use that.” “You 'll let me in?” “Yes.” Beveridge promptly set down his burden on the stairs, and stood aside to let the farmer take the lead. Van Deelen tapped at the door, and softly, called, “Saskia!” “What is it?” “You have to open the door and let this gentleman in.” “Mercy, no!” “But you have to!” “Then,--” the voice was very fluttery and agitated--“then wait a minute after I unlock the door.” The bolt was slipped, and they could hear a frantic rustling and scampering. Van Deelen opened the door and entered the room with Beveridge and Smiley at his heels. As they entered, another door, evidently leading to a closet, was violently closed. The three men stood a moment in the middle of the room without speaking, then Beveridge walked over to the bed. The woman lying there had turned to the wall and drawn the coverlet over her face. Beveridge bent over and jerked it back. “Smiley,” he called, “come here and see if this ain't your old friend, Estelle!” The woman struggled to hide her face again, but Beveridge rudely held her quiet. Dick would have turned away but for the special agent's impatience. As it was he made him speak twice. Then he went slowly and shamefacedly to the bed. “Yes, I guess this is Estelle, all right.” They saw her shudder. Her face was flushed with fever. Dick took Beveridge's arm and whispered, “For heaven's sake, Bill, don't be a beast.” But Beveridge impatiently shook him off. “Well, Estelle,” he said, “the game's up. We've got them.”