"Move on, now--move on," he snarled, and herded them forward in advance of the workers. Sheepishly the three obeyed, but Miss Eliot was not silent. "Your name?" she demanded in judicial command. The very terseness of her question seemed to jerk an unwilling answer from the guard. "Michael Mehan." "And you're employed by the Owners' Protective League?" "Sure." "Have they given you orders to keep strangers out of the district?" "I have me orders, and I know what they be. I'm duly sworn in as extra guard--and I'm not the only one, neither." "Did _he_ come after you?" Miss Eliot indicated the ruffian at his side. "I seen the lady owner blew the bunch," that worthy remarked with a hoarse chuckle. "I wised Mike, all right. Whatcha goin' to do about it?" "Mrs. Brewster-Smith, the owner," Miss Eliot observed, "didn't seem to know that she had employed you. How about that?" "I'm put here by the O.P.L. That's good enough fer yer lady owner--now--ain't it? The things them nosey dames thinks they can git by wit'!" he observed to the guard, and swore an oath that made Mr. Glass turn to him with unexpected fury. "You may pretend to think that I'm not what I represent myself to be, but let me tell you, McLaughlin is going to hear of this. One more insult to these ladies and I'll make it my business to go personally to your employers. Get me?" "Shut your trap, Jim," snarled Mehan. "Yer ain't got no orders fer no fancy language." He leered at Genevieve. "Now we've shooed the chickens out, we're tru'." With a wave of his huge paw he indicated the highway the turn of the path revealed. Genevieve looked to the right, where the car should be waiting her. It was gone. Evidently the indignant Mrs. Brewster-Smith had expedited the departure. Miss Eliot read her discomfiture. "My car is right down here behind that palatial mansion with the hole in the roof and the tin-can extension. Thank you very much for your escort," she added, turning to the two representatives of the Protective League. "My name, by the way, is E. Eliot. I am a real-estate agent and my office is at 22 Braston Street. You might mention it in your report." The little car stood waiting, surrounded by a group of admiring children. Its owner stepped in briskly, backed around and received her passengers. "Well," she smiled as they drew out on the traveled highway, "how do you like the purlieus of our noble little city?" Genevieve was silent. Then she spoke with conviction. "When George is in power--and he's _got_ to be--the Law will be the Law. I know him." CHAPTER XI. BY MARJORIE BENTON COOK George Remington walked toward headquarters with more assurance than he felt. He resented Doolittle's command that he appear at once. He was beginning to realize the pressure which these campaign managers were bringing to bear upon him. He was not sure yet how far he could go, in out-and-out defiance of them and their dictates.