“I can’t make it—­no, I can’t . . .”

“Yes, you can,” encouraged the Girl; and then, simultaneously with another loud knock on the door:  “You’re the man I love an’ you must—­you’ve got to show me the man that’s in you.  Oh, go on, go on, jest a step an’ you’ll git there.”

“But I can’t,” came feebly from the voice above.  Nevertheless, the next instant he fell full length on the boarded floor of the loft with the hand outstretched in which was the handkerchief he had been staunching the blood from the wound in his side.

With a whispered injunction that he was all right and was not to move on any account, the Girl put the ladder back in its place.  But no sooner was this done than on looking up she caught sight of the stained handkerchief.  She called softly up to him to take it away, explaining that the cracks between the boards were wide and it could plainly be seen from below.

“That’s it!” she exclaimed on observing that he had changed the position of his hand.  “Now, don’t move!”

Finally, with the lighted candle in her hand, the Girl made a quick survey of the room to see that nothing was in sight that would betray her lover’s presence there, and then throwing open the door she took up such a position by it that it made it impossible for anyone to get past her without using force.

“You can’t come in here, Jack Rance,” she said in a resolute voice.  “You can tell me what you want from where you are.”

Roughly, almost brutally, Rance shoved her to one side and entered.

“No more Jack Rance.  It’s the Sheriff coming after Mr. Johnson,” he said, emphasizing each word.

The Girl eyed him defiantly.

“Yes, I said Mr. Johnson,” reiterated the Sheriff, cocking the gun that he held in his hand.  “I saw him coming in here.”

“It’s more ’n I did,” returned the Girl, evenly, and bolted the door.  “Do you think I’d want to shield a man who tried to rob me?” she asked, facing him.

Ignoring the question, Rance removed the glove of his weaponless hand and strode to the curtains that enclosed the Girl’s bed and parted them.  When he turned back he was met by a scornful look and the words: 

“So, you doubt me, do you?  Well, go on—­search the place.  But this ends your acquaintance with The Polka.  Don’t you ever speak to me again.  We’re through.”

Suddenly there came a smothered groan from the man in the loft; Rance wheeled round quickly and brought up his gun, demanding: 

“What’s that?  What’s that?”

Leaning against the bureau the Girl laughed outright and declared that the Sheriff was becoming as nervous as an old woman.  Her ridicule was not without its effect, and, presently, Rance uncocked his gun and replaced it in its holster.  Advancing now to the table where the Girl was standing, he took off his cap and shook it before laying it down; then, pointing to the door, his eyes never leaving the Girl’s face, he went on accusingly: