“Going out—­where?  In the name of Heaven, what do you mean, Judge?”

“I told ’em to keep cool and—­ Say, don’t be in a hurry, Jim.  I had an awful good mind to call out Hank Simonson to run a few of ’em in.  But I dunno as the boys’ll do any real harm.  They wouldn’t dare.  They know me, and they know—­”

“Do you mean that drunken mob was headed for Bolton House?  Why, Good Lord, man, she’s there practically alone!”

“Well, perhaps you’d better see if you can get some help,” began the Judge, whose easy-going disposition was already balking at effort.

But Jim Dodge, shouting back a few trenchant directions, had already disappeared, running at top speed.

There was a short cut to Bolton House, across plowed fields and through a patch of woodland.  Jim Dodge ran all the way, wading a brook, swollen with the recent rains, tearing his way through thickets of brush and bramble, the twinkling lights in the top story of the distant house leading him on.  Once he paused for an instant, thinking he heard the clamor of rude voices borne on the wind; then plunged forward again, his flying feet seemingly weighted with lead; and all the while an agonizing picture of Lydia, white and helpless, facing the crowd of drunken men flitted before his eyes.

Now he had reached the wall at the rear of the gardens; had clambered over it, dropping to his feet in the midst of a climbing rose which clutched at him with its thorny branches; had run across an acre of kitchen garden and leaped the low-growing hedge which divided it from the sunken flower garden he had made for Lydia.  Here were more rosebushes and an interminable space broken by walks and a sundial, masked by shrubs, with which he collided violently.  There was no mistaking the clamor from the front of the house; the rioters had reached their quarry first!  Not stopping to consider what one man, single-handed and unarmed, could do against a score of drunken opponents, the young man rounded the corner of the big house just as the door was flung wide and the slim figure of Lydia stood outlined against the bright interior.

“What do you want, men?” she called out, in her clear, fearless voice.  “What has happened?”

There was a confused murmur of voices in reply.  Most of the men were decent enough fellows, when sober.  Some one was heard to suggest a retreat:  “No need to scare the young lady.  ’Tain’t her fault!”

“Aw! shut up, you coward!” shouted another.  “We want our money!”

“Where did you get yer money?” demanded a third.  “You tell us that, young woman.  That’s what we’re after!”

“Where’s the old thief? ...We want Andrew Bolton!”

Then from somewhere in the darkness a pebble flung by a reckless hand shattered a pane of glass.  At sound of the crash all pretense of decency and order seemed abandoned.  The spirit of the pack broke loose!