The sergeant stretched his hands toward her, the fingers working and making clutches in the air.  The look in his eyes was quite terrifying.

“If you don’t tell,” he said slowly, “I’ll choke it out of you!”

If his intention was to frighten the girl, he succeeded admirably.  With her hands clasped to her throat, Miss Farrar sank against the wall.  She saw no chance of escape.  The way to the door was barred, and should she drop to the garden below, from the window, before she could reach the road the men would overtake her.  Even should she reach the road, the house nearest was a half mile distant.

The sergeant came close, his fingers opening and closing in front of her eyes.  He raised his voice to a harsh, bellowing roar.  “I’m going to make you tell!” he shouted.  “I’m going to choke it out of you!”

Although she was alone in the house, although on every side the pine woods encompassed her, Miss Farrar threw all her strength into one long, piercing cry for help.  And upon the instant it was answered.  From the hall came the swift rush of feet.  The rat-like one swung toward it.  From his revolver came a report that shook the room, a flash and a burst of smoke, and through it Miss Farrar saw Lathrop hurl himself.  He dived at the rat-like one, and as on the foot-ball field he had been taught to stop a runner, flung his arms around the other’s knees.  The legs of the man shot from under him, his body cut a half circle through the air, and the part of his anatomy to first touch the floor was his head.  The floor was of oak, and the impact gave forth a crash like the smash of a base-ball bat, when it drives the ball to centre field.  The man did not move.  He did not even groan.  In his relaxed fingers the revolver lay, within reach of Lathrop’s hand.  He fell upon it and, still on his knees, pointed it at the sergeant.

“You’re my prisoner, now!” he shouted cheerfully.  “Hands up!”

The man raised his arms slowly, as if he were lifting heavy dumb-bells.

“The lady called for help,” he said.  “I came to help her.”

“No!  No!” protested the girl.  “He did not help me!  He said he would choke me if I didn’t—­”

“He said he would—­what!” bellowed Lathrop.  He leaped to his feet, and sent the gun spinning through the window.  He stepped toward the man gingerly, on the balls of his feet, like one walking on ice.  The man seemed to know what that form of approach threatened, for he threw his arms into a position of defence.

“You bully!” whispered Lathrop.  “You coward!  You choke women, do you?”

He shifted from one foot to the other, his body balancing forward, his arms swinging limply in front of him.  With his eyes, he seemed to undress the man, as though choosing a place to strike.

“I made the same mistake you did,” he taunted.  “I should have killed you first.  Now I am going to do it!”

He sprang at the man, his chin still sunk on his chest, but with his arms swinging like the spokes of a wheel.  His opponent struck back heavily, violently, but each move of his arm seemed only to open up some vulnerable spot.  Blows beat upon his chin, upon his nose, his eyes; blows jabbed him in the ribs, drove his breath from his stomach, ground his teeth together, cut the flesh from his cheeks.  He sank to his knees, with his arms clasping his head.