It was a swift, impassioned speech, clear, ringing, honest in every word.  It thrilled Van wondrously, despite the things that had been—­her letter, and subsequent events.  He all but lost track of the business in hand, in the light of her sudden revelations.  He did not answer readily, and Lawrence broke out in protestation.

“It’s infamous!” he cried.  “If anyone here except a woman had charged—­had been guilty of all these outrageous lies——­”

Half a dozen loiterers had halted at the door, attracted by the shrill high tones of his voice.

“That’s enough of that, Lawrence,” Van interrupted quietly.  “Every word of this is true.  You accepted twenty thousand dollars to falsify that line.  Your chief was murdered to get him out of the way, because it was known you could be bribed.  I came here to get you, and I’ll get all the crowd, if it kills half the town in the fight.”  With one quick movement he seized his man by the collar.  “Here, Bill, hustle him out,” he said to Christler.  “We’ve got no time to waste.”

Lawrence, the sheriff, and himself were projected out upon the sidewalk by one of his quick maneuvers.  A crowd of men came running to the place.  Above the rising murmur of their voices, raised in excitement, came a shrill and strident cry.

“Van!  Van!” was the call from someone in the crowd.

It was lean old Gettysburg.  Dave and Napoleon were pantingly chasing where he ran.

“Van!” yelled Gettysburg again.  “It’s Barger!—­Barger!—­dead in the tent—­it’s Barger—­up there—­dead!”

Barger!  The name acted as swiftly on the crowd as oil upon a flame.  It seemed as if the wave of news swept like a tide across the street, down the thoroughfare, and into every shop.

Two automobiles were halted in the road, their engines purring as they stood.  Their drivers dismounted to join the gathering throng.  One of the men was Bostwick, down from the hills.  He had searched for Beth at Mrs. Dick’s, and then had followed here.

“Barger!  Barger’s dead in camp and the ‘Laughing Water’ claim was stolen—­and Culver killed!” One man bawled it to the crowd—­and it sped to Bostwick’s ears.

One being only departed from the scene—­Trimmer, the lumberman, swiftly seeking McCoppet.

Van, in his heat, had told too much, accusing the prisoner in hand.  He silenced Gettysburg abruptly and started to force aside the crowd.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, move aside,” he said.  “I’ve got—­by Jupe! there’s Bostwick!”

It was Bostwick fleeing to his car that Van had discovered.  Searle had seen enough in the briefest of glances.  He had heard too much.  He realized that only in flight could the temper of the mob be avoided.  He had seen this mob in action once before—­and the walls of his stomach caved.

Like a youthful Hercules in strength and action, Van went plunging through the crowd to get his man.  But he could not win.  Bostwick had speeded up his motor in a panic for haste and his car leaped away like a dragon on wings, the muffler cut-out roaring like a gattling.