She tried to escape.

“You--mean-----”

He broke all control like a whirlwind.

“I mean I can’t hold it any longer!  I love you!—­I love you to death!”

He took her in his arms suddenly, passionately, crushing her almost fiercely against his heart.  He kissed her on the lips—­once—­twice—­a dozen times in half a minute—­feeling the warm, moist softness in the contact and holding her pliant figure yet more closely.

She, too, was mad with it all, for a second.  Then she began to battle with his might.

“Van!—­Mr. Van!” she said, pushing his face away with a hand he might have devoured.  “Let me go!  Let me go!  How dare——­ You shan’t!  You shan’t!  Let me go!”

Her nature, in revolt for a moment against her better judgment, refused to do the bidding of her muscles.  Then she gathered strength out of the whirlwind itself and pushed him away like a tigress.

“You shan’t!” she repeated.  “You ought to be ashamed!  How dare you treat me——­”

He had turned abruptly, looking towards the door.  Her utterance was halted by his movement of listening.  She had barely time to take up her papers, and make an effort at regaining her composure.  Bostwick was coming down the hall.  He presently appeared at the door.  For a moment there was silence.

Van was the first to speak.

“How are you, Searle?” he said cheerily.  “Got over your grouch?”

Bostwick looked him over with ill-concealed loathing.

“You thought you were clever, I suppose,” he said in a growl-like tone that certainly fitted his face.  “What are you doing here, I’d like to know?”

“Tottering angels!” said Van, “didn’t that experience do you any good after all?  No wonder the convicts wouldn’t have you!”

Beth was afraid for what Bostwick might have heard.  She could not censure Van for what he had done; she saw he would make no explanations.  At best she could only attempt to put some appearance of the commonplace upon the horseman’s visit.

“Mr. Van Buren came—­to see Mrs. Dick,” she faltered, steadying her voice as best she might.  “They’re—­very old friends.”

“What’s that?” demanded Bostwick, coming into the room and pointing at the bright nugget pin, lying exposed upon the table.  “Some present, I suppose, for Mrs. Dick?” He started to take it in his hand.

Van interposed.  “It’s neither for Mrs. Dick nor for you.  It’s a present I’ve made to Miss Kent.”

Bostwick elevated his brows.

“Indeed?”

Beth fluttered in with a word of defense.

“It’s just a little souvenir—­that’s all—­a souvenir of—­of my escape from those terrible men.”

“And Searle’s return,” added Van, who felt the very devil in his veins at sight of Bostwick helpless and enraged.

Searle opened his lips as if to fling out something of his wrath.  He held it back and turned to Beth.