The door flung open and the big burglar and a small, rat-like figure of a man burst upon them; the big one pointing a revolver.

“Come with me to your car!” he commanded.  “You’ve got to take us to Boston.  Quick, or I’ll blow your face off.”

Although the young man glared bravely at the steel barrel and the lifted trigger, poised a few inches from his eyes, his body, as though weak with fright, shifted slightly and his feet made a shuffling noise upon the floor.  When the weight of his body was balanced on the ball of his right foot, the shuffling ceased.  Had the burglar lowered his eyes, the manoeuvre to him would have been significant, but his eyes were following the barrel of the revolver.

In the mind of the young man the one thought uppermost was that he must gain time, but, with a revolver in his face, he found his desire to gain time swiftly diminishing.  Still, when he spoke, it was with deliberation.

“My chauffeur—­” he began slowly.

The burglar snapped at him like a dog.  “To hell with your chauffeur!” he cried.  “Your chauffeur has run away.  You’ll drive that car yourself, or I’ll leave you here with the top of your head off.”

The face of the young man suddenly flashed with pleasure.  His eyes, looking past the burglar to the door, lit with relief.

“There’s the chauffeur now!” he cried.

The big burglar for one instant glanced over his right shoulder.

For months at a time, on Soldiers Field, the young man had thrown himself at human targets, that ran and dodged and evaded him, and the hulking burglar, motionless before him, was easily his victim.

He leaped at him, his left arm swinging like a scythe, and, with the impact of a club, the blow caught the burglar in the throat.

The pistol went off impotently; the burglar with a choking cough sank in a heap on the floor.

The young man tramped over him and upon him, and beat the second burglar with savage, whirlwind blows.  The second burglar, shrieking with pain, turned to fly, and a fist, that fell upon him where his bump of honesty should have been, drove his head against the lintel of the door.

At the same instant from the belfry on the roof there rang out on the night the sudden tumult of a bell; a bell that told as plainly as though it clamored with a human tongue, that the hand that rang it was driven with fear; fear of fire, fear of thieves, fear of a mad-man with a knife in his hand running amuck; perhaps at that moment creeping up the belfry stairs.

From all over the house there was the rush of feet and men’s voices, and from the garden the light of dancing lanterns.  And while the smoke of the revolver still hung motionless, the open door was crowded with half-clad figures.  At their head were two young men.  One who had drawn over his night clothes a serge suit, and who, in even that garb, carried an air of authority; and one, tall,