Jason stood looking in a dazed way from Martin Moreland to Rebecca. Then he looked at Mahala as she spoke: “For the love of God, Martin Moreland, tell Rebecca what you did with her baby!” She dropped on her knees beside the couch and again gathered to her breast the hand that Rebecca was reaching to Martin Moreland. Jason lifted his head. He shook it, and his shoulders twitched as he stepped forward, his face ashen and cut deep in lines of torture. Throwing out his arms, he pushed back the other men and closed on the old banker. With a powerful hand he gripped one of his arms and drew him nearer to Rebecca. There was something terrible in his voice, something final and ultimate, something discernibly deadly as he ground out the question: “Is this woman’s child living or dead?” Martin Moreland was pulling back. He had taken one look at Jason’s face, and what he had seen appalled him. His lips were white and stiff; it was only a whisper, the answer he made: “Living.” Then Jason demanded: “Do you know where he is?” The banker nodded. Jason gripped him more firmly. He drew him closer and then he said in tones of finality: “You shall tell Becky where her child is.” Martin Moreland shook his head. “You shall tell her,” said Jason, “or I’ll take you out and explain to the mob that is howling for your blood.” Again Martin Moreland shook his head. Suddenly Jason swung him around; he shoved him in front of him across the room and into the hall from the back end of which there could be seen the big plate glass window, shattered at the top, and the glass door. Pressed against what remained of the broken glass of the window and the door, and reinforced by the width of the packed street behind them, there were faces topping the forms of men, yet one scarcely would have recognized them as the faces of men,—menacing faces by the hundred, upon the bodies of men who had been men of peace, men of patience, godly men. They were farmers and business men and day labourers. They had been outraged to a degree that had turned them into a compact mob of snarling, blood-thirsty beasts. In their hands could be seen revolvers, rifles, sickles; some of them carried axes, some of them bricks and stones, or clubs. At the sight of the banker a snarling cry broke from them and they surged forward until the front of the building shook with their impact. Galvanized with terror, Moreland summoned strength to break from Jason’s grasp and rush back toward the directors’ room. But Jason was at his heels as he reached the door, he caught and whirled him around, once more forcing him to face Rebecca. She struggled to a sitting posture and stretched out both hands in a last appeal. “My baby! Give me back my baby. Let me have him only one minute before I die!” Martin Moreland shook his ghastly white head.