A silence that followed was endured with her cringing against the barricade.  She had a hope that Dale would search for the money—­that he would find it, and go away without attempting to molest her.  But when she heard his step just outside the door, she gave up hope and stood, her knees shaking, awaiting his first movement.

It came quickly enough.  She heard him; saw the door give just a trifle as he leaned his weight against it.

The movement made her gasp, and he heard the sound.

“So you’re still there, eh?  Well, I thought you would be.  Open the door!”

“Dale,” she said, desperately, “get out of here!  I’ll tell you where the money is—­I don’t want it.”

“All right,” he said, “where is it?”

“It’s in the parlor; the packages are stuffed between the springs of the lounge.”

He laughed, jeeringly.

“That dodge don’t go,” he said in a voice that made her feel clammy all over.  “If it’s there, all right.  I’ll get it.  But the money can wait.  Open the door!”

“Dale,” she said, as steadily as she could, “if you try to get in here I shall kill you!”

“That’s good,” he laughed; “you threw your gun at me.  It hit me, too.  Besides if you had a gun you’d be lettin’ it off now—­this door ain’t so thick that a bullet wouldn’t go through it.  Shoot!”

Again there came a silence.  She heard Dale walking about in the kitchen.  She heard him place a chair near the wall which divided the pantry from the kitchen, and then for the first time she realized that the partition did not reach entirely to the ceiling; that it rose to a height only a few feet above her head.

She heard Dale laugh, triumphantly, at just the instant she looked at the top of the partition, and she saw one of Dale’s legs come over.  It dangled there for a second; then the man’s head and shoulders appeared, with his hands gripping the top of the wall.

She began to tear at the barricade she had erected, and had only succeeded in partially demolishing it, when Dale swung his body over the wall and dropped lightly beside her.

She fought him with the only weapons she had, her hands, not waiting for him to advance on her, but leaping at him in a fury and striking his face with her fists, as she had seen men strike others.

He laughed, deeply, scornfully, as her blows landed, mocking her impotent resistance.  Twice he seized her hands and swept them brutally to her sides, where he held them—­trying to grip them in one of his; but she squirmed free and fought him again, clawing at his eyes.

The nails of her fingers found his cheek, gashing it deeply.  The pain from the hurt made him furious.

“Damn you, you devil, I’ll fix you!” he cursed.  And in an access of bestial rage he tore her hands from his face, crushed them to her sides, wrenching them cruelly, until she cried out in agony.