Babbitt at last managed to wriggle partially clear.  He was crazy with rage, but he was not frightened.  Fear of physical violence was not in his make-up; he was no coward.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” he screamed.  “I’ll tell you what it is:  I’ve found out about you and that stuck-up crook of a brother of yours.  He’s a thief.  That’s what he is, a thief and a jailbird.  He stole at Middleford and now he’s stole again here.  And Jed Winslow and you are—­”

He got no further, being once more stoppered like a bottle by the Winslow grip and the Winslow hand.  He wriggled and fought, but he was pinned and helpless, hands, feet and vocal organs.  Jed did not so much as look at him; he looked only at Ruth.

Her pallor had increased.  She was trembling.

“Oh, Jed,” she cried, “what does he mean?  What does he mean by—­by ’again—­here’?”

Jed’s grip tightened over his captive’s mouth.

“He doesn’t mean anything,” he declared, stoutly.  “He don’t know what he means.”

From behind the smothering fingers came a defiant mumble.  Ruth leaned forward.

“Jed,” she begged, “does he—­does he know about—­about—­”

Jed nodded.  She closed her eyes and swayed slightly, but she did not collapse or give way.

“And he is going to tell?” she whispered.

A furious mumble from behind the fingers and a venomous flash from the Babbitt eyes were answers sufficient.

“Oh, Jed,” she pleaded, “what shall we do?”

For the instant a bit of the old Jed came to the surface.  His lip twitched grimly as he looked down at the crimson face above his own hand.

“I ain’t sartin—­yet,” he drawled.  “How do you start in killin’ a—­a snappin’ turtle?  I ain’t tackled the job since I was a boy.”

Phineas looked as if he could have furnished some points on the subject.  His eyes were bulging.  Then all three heard the door of the outer shop open.

Ruth looked desperately about her.  She hastened to the door by which she had entered.  “There’s some one coming,” she whispered.

Jed glanced over his shoulder.  “You go away,” he whispered in reply.  “Go away, Ruth.  Hurry!”

Her hand was on the latch of the door, but before she could open it the other door, that leading from the outer shop, opened and Leonard Grover came in.  He stared at the picture before him—­at Ruth Armstrong’s pale, frightened face, at Babbitt struggling in his captor’s clutch, at Jed.

“Why!” he exclaimed.  “What is it?”

No one answered.  Phineas was the only one who stirred.  He seemed anxious to turn the tableau into a moving picture, but his success was limited.  The Major turned to Ruth.

“What is it?” he asked again.

She was silent.  Grover repeated his question, addressing Jed this time.

“Well?” he asked, sharply.  “What is the trouble here?  What has that fellow been doing?”