On the threshold Miss Farrar stood quite still.  A swift, sinking nausea held her in a vice.  Her instinct was to scream and run, but her throat had tightened and gone dry, and her limbs trembled.  Opposite the door was her dressing-table, and reflected in its mirror were the features and figure of the rat-like soldier.  His back was toward her.  With one hand he swept the dressing-table.  The other, hanging at his side, held a revolver.  In a moment the panic into which Miss Farrar had been thrown passed.  Her breath and blood returned, and, intent only on flight, she softly turned.  On the instant the rat-faced one raised his eyes, saw her reflected in the mirror, and with an oath, swung toward her.  He drew the revolver close to his cheek, and looked at her down the barrel.  “Don’t move!” he whispered; “don’t scream!  Where are the jewels?”

Miss Farrar was not afraid of the revolver or of the man.  She did not believe either would do her harm.  The idea of both the presence of the man in her room, and that any one should dare to threaten her was what filled her with repugnance.  As the warm blood flowed again through her body her spirit returned.  She was no longer afraid.  She was, instead, indignant, furious.

With one step she was in the room, leaving the road to the door open.

“Get out of here,” she commanded.

The little man snarled, and stamped the floor.  He shoved the gun nearer to her.

“The jewels, damn you!” he whispered.  “Do you want me to blow your fool head off?  Where are the jewels?”

“Jewels?” repeated Miss Farrar.  “I have no jewels!”

“You lie!” shrieked the little man.  “He said the house was full of jewels.  We heard him.  He said he would stay to guard the jewels.”

Miss Farrar recognized his error.  She remembered Lathrop’s jest, and that it had been made while the two men were within hearing, behind the stone wall.

“It was a joke!” she cried.  “Leave at once!” She backed swiftly toward the open window that looked upon the road.  “Or I’ll call your sergeant!”

“If you go near that window or scream,” whispered the rat-like one, “I’ll shoot!”

A heavy voice, speaking suddenly from the doorway, shook Miss Farrar’s jangled nerves into fresh panic.

“She won’t scream,” said the voice.

In the door Miss Farrar saw the bulky form of the sergeant, blocking her escape.

Without shifting his eyes from Miss Farrar, the man with the gun cursed breathlessly at the other.  “Why didn’t you keep her away?” he panted.

“An automobile stopped in front of the gate,” explained the sergeant.  “Have you got them?” he demanded.

“No!” returned the other.  “Nothing!  She won’t tell where they are.”

The older man laughed.  “Oh, yes, she’ll tell,” he whispered.  His voice was still low and suave, but it carried with it the weight of a threat, and the threat, although unspoken, filled Miss Farrar with alarm.  Her eyes, wide with concern, turned fearfully from one man to the other.