There was an instant when the tall young mountaineer seemed incapable of action, his rich coloring drained from his face, his piercing gaze dulled to a curious blankness: then he plunged for the door. “Wait! Give me your keys!” Peter shouted, and Glen went after him calling. “Luke! Luke! Give me the keys! We’ll get it out while you tell the hands! _Wait_, Luke!” She ran after him, down the hall, calling his name. Her voice came back to them, sharp, agonized. Nancy Carey clasped her plumply pretty hands on her breast and her soft gaze was misted over. “Oh,” she breathed, “he is going to save the hands!” “He is going to save himself!” Janice Jennings amended briskly. “Come on, Nancy!-- Us for the Paul Revere!” She shepherded her swiftly to the door and out into the hall. “You go through those rooms and yell your head off! I’ll take this side! Beat it, dumb-bell!” There were left then, in the dingy and unbeautiful office of the Altonia, only the President of the Federated Women’s Clubs of America and her trifling son, and the unseen thing which was ticking softly and swiftly behind the locked cupboard door, and in that tense moment they seemed to be taking each other’s measure. “Comes down to a family party, doesn’t it? On your way, Eugenia!” commanded the youth crisply. She shook her head. “When you go, Peter--after you’ve got it out.” “_’Atta_ boy, Madame President!” He grinned at her sunnily, picking up the heavy stool on which Luke Manders sat to keep the Altonia’s books and advancing on the cupboard. “Wait!” Glen was back, breathless, her face crimson. “There are some other keys here--” She tore open a desk drawer, fished out a jingling bunch and flew across the room, fitting one after another into the lock with steady fingers. Peter Parker took the keys away from her. “Good girl, but this is my Roman holiday. You take Eugenia out into the great open spaces, will you, please? And Eugenia, will you please take care of Glen for me--extra special care? This is a solo act. Your presence is distinctly not requested!” He looked over his shoulder at them reprovingly. “Darling dumb-bells, did you hear what I said! Out! You aren’t helping a bit, and you cramp my style! But at that,” he chuckled tenderly, “it is to be admitted that you are there a million! Page Molly Pitcher!” He threw the keys, jingling, to the floor. “Not a leaf stirring! We crash the gate! _Out_, you nit-wits!” The old, warped door of the little closet splintered into fragments at the first blow. “There she is!” He crowed in triumph, lifting out a crudely fashioned box. “Common or garden variety! A child can run it! Steady, girls--back, please! ’Way for the Lord High Executioner! Sports of all nations--opening bombs in the Sunny South!” He was in the hall; he was at the door, out of the door, in the lane, running ... running ... running.... “Back! Keep _back_!”