All night long bands of men scoured the woods and fields, with lanterns and dogs and guns. Courtney Thane, thrilled by that one glorious, overpowering moment of contact, sallied forth with the first of the searchers. He showed them where the masked man vaulted over the porch rail, and the course he took in crossing the terrace, below which Courtney's coat was found where he had cast it aside at the beginning of the chase. The first shot was fired as the man climbed over the fence separating the old-fashioned garden from the wooded district to the west, the second following almost immediately. Thane was over the fence and picking himself up from the ground after tripping when the last shot was fired. He ran forty or fifty yards farther on and then his knee gave out. Realizing that pursuit was useless under the circumstances, he hurried back to the house to give the alarm.

It appears that he first saw the man as he was nearing the top of the steps leading to the terrace. The fellow's figure, in a crouching position, was distinctly outlined against the lighted window.

"Kind of a funny time for a robber to be monkeyin' around a house," said Charlie Webster, after Courtney had concluded his brief story. "Eight o'clock is no time to figure on breaking into a house."

"He probably figured that the occupants would be at dinner," said Courtney. "Or maybe he was getting the lay of the land while there were lights to guide him. That is most likely the case. Lord, how I wish I had had a gun!"

"Maybe it's lucky you didn't," said Charlie. "Guns are pretty treacherous things to monkey with, Court. You might have shot yourself."

"Oh, I guess I know how to handle a gun, Charlie," retorted Thane, after a perceptible pause.

"Anyhow," remarked Constable Foss, "we now know why that dog of Alix's was killed. This robber had things purty well sized up. He knowed he had to fix that dog first of all,—and that goes to show another thing. He is purty well posted around these parts. He knowed all about that dog. He ain't no tramp or common stranger. The chances are he ain't even a perfessional burglar. Maybe some dago,—or, by gosh, somebody we all know."

A chosen group waited at the roadside above the Windom place for automobiles which were to be used in the attempt to head off the invader. This was Courtney's idea. He suggested a wide cordon of machines and men as the only means of cutting off the fellow's escape.

"You're not likely to get anywhere, Foss, by keeping up a stern chase," he argued. "He has got too big a lead. Our only chance is to rush a lot of men out ahead of him in cars, and then work back through the woods."

A boy came up with Courtney's fedora hat, which he had picked up in the brush near the fence.

"There's a bullet hole through it, Mr. Thane," he cried in great excitement. "Lookee here!"

Sure enough there was a hole in the crown of the hat.

"Whew!" whistled Courtney, staring at the hat blankly. "I never dreamed—Why, good Lord, a couple of inches lower and he'd have got me. I remember my hat blowing off as I got up, but I thought it was the wind. Where did you find it, kid?"

"Back there by the fence."

"We must have that hat for evidence," said the constable. "Shows the calibre of the bullet, and all that. Bring it down to the office in the morning, Mr. Thane. Better put it on now. You'll ketch cold out here bareheaded."

By this time the lane and grounds were alive with excited people,—men, women and children. Several automobiles approached, sounding their horns. Men were shouting directions, dogs were barking, small children were squalling lustily. Shadowy, indistinct figures scuttled through the darkness, here and there coming into bold relief as they passed before the lamps of automobiles or entered the radius of light shed by an occasional lantern. Half the town was already on the scene, and the belated remainder was either on the way or grimly guarding cash drawers in empty, deserted stores.

Courtney reluctantly announced that he did not feel up to accompanying the searchers, his leg was bothering him so. No, he didn't need a doctor. The confounded thing simply gave out on him whenever he got the least bit reckless, but it seldom if ever amounted to anything. Only made him realize that he couldn't "get gay" with it. He'd be all right in a day or two. Hobble a little, that's all,—like a lame dog. More scared than hurt, you know, etc., etc.

He picked his way through the ever-increasing crowd of agitated people, avoiding rampant automobiles and inquisitive citizens with equal skill, and approached Alix's gate. His blood was rioting. The memory of that triumphant moment when her warm body lay in his arms,—when her lips were his,—when his eager hand pressed the firm, round breast,—ah, the memory of it all set fire to his blood. She had come to him, she had clung to him, she had kissed him! He had won! She was his! He must see her again tonight, hold her once more in his arms, drink of the rapture that came through her lips, caress the throbbing heart she had surrendered to him. Anticipation sent the blood rushing to his head. He grew strangely dizzy. He narrowly escaped being struck by a car.

"The darned fools!" he muttered, as he leaped aside into the shallow ditch.

A figure separated itself from a group near the gate and approached him. There were no lights near and the lane was dark. He could not see the face of the woman who halted directly in front of him, barring the path.

"It is I, Courtney,—Rosabel," came in low, tremulous tones.

He stood stockstill, peering intently.

"Rosabel!" he repeated vacantly.

"I—I saw you. The auto lamp shone on your face."

Her teeth were chattering. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"You—you poor child!" he cried. "What are you doing here? How do you happen to be—"

"I came over to spend the night with Annie Jordan. I—I do that quite often, Courtney. Aren't—aren't you ever coming to see me again?"

"I was planning to come over tomorrow, Rosie,—tomorrow sure. I've been meaning to run over to your house—"

"I—I thought you had forgotten all about us," she broke in, pathetically. "You wouldn't do that, would you? Didn't you get my letters? I wrote four or five times and you never answered. You—you haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Bless your heart, no! I should say not. I've been so busy. Working like a dog on my book. The one we talked about, Rosie. The story of my experiences over in France, you know."

"Oh, Courtney, are you really, truly writing it?" she cried eagerly.

"Sure," he replied. "It's a tough job, believe me. I've been so busy I haven't even had time to write letters. Mother complains that I never write to her. Dear old mater,—I ought to be kicked for neglecting her. Stacks of unanswered letters. Really, it's appalling. But I've just got to finish this work. The publisher wants it before Christmas."

"You promised to read it to me as you wrote it, Courtney," she murmured wistfully. "Don't you remember?"

"Just as soon as I've got it in little better shape, Rosie. You see, it's an awful mess now. I'm trying so hard to concentrate. It would be different if I were an experienced writer. But I'm a terrible duffer, you know. The least little thing throws me off. I—"

"I wouldn't interfere for the world, Courtney. I will wait. I don't want to bother you. Please don't think about reading it to me now. But,—oh, Courtney, I have wanted to see you so much. You WILL come over, won't you. Or would you rather have me come—"

"I'll be over, Rosie,—tomorrow," he said hastily. "Or the day after, sure. I'm all done up. I can hardly stand on this leg. Did they tell you? I chased the robber up through the woods. Had a bad fall. Bunged up this rotten old knee again."

"You poor boy," she cried. "Yes, I heard them talking about how brave you were. And he shot at you, too. I saw the plaster on your face when the light shone on it a while ago. I was frightened. I forgot to ask you how bad it is. I forgot everything but—but just speaking to you. Is it dangerous? Is it a bad wound?"

"I don't know. The doctor is waiting for me up at Miss Crown's. They sent me back, the other fellows did. I wanted to go with the gang,—but I was weak and—Oh, I'll be all right. Don't you worry, little girl. Dr. Smith may slap me into bed,—"

"You must not be foolish, Courtney. Do what the doctor says. You must get well—oh, you MUST get well!"

She had come quite close to him and was peering at his face. Even in the darkness he could see her big, dark eyes. Her teeth no longer chattered, but there was a perilous quaver in her low, tense voice. She put out a hand to touch him. He drew back.

"I'll be as fit as a fiddle in no time at all," he said hurriedly. "See you tomorrow, Rosie,—or as soon as the blamed old doctor turns me loose. I've got to be on my way now. He's waiting for me up there. May have to put a stitch in my mug,—and yank my leg like the devil, but—"

She still blocked his path.

"Courtney, I'm—I'm terribly unhappy. I want to see you,—very soon."

"I hear you have been ill, Rosie. Some one was telling me you were looking thin and—and all that sort of thing. I hope you're feeling better."

She waited a moment. When she spoke it was with difficulty.

"I'm awfully worried, Courtney," she cried, her voice little more than a whisper. He was silent, so after a little while she went on: "I wish I could die,—I wish I could die!"

"Come, come!" he said reassuringly. "You must not talk like that, Rosie. Cheer up! You're too young to talk about dying. Think what I've been through,—and I'm still alive! I'll run over tomorrow,—or next day,—and try to cheer you up a bit, little girl. So long. I've got to see the doctor. I'm—I'm suffering like the dickens."

"I mustn't keep you, Courtney," she murmured, stepping aside to let him pass. "Good night! You—you WILL come, won't you? Sure?"

"Sure!" he replied, and limped painfully away.

A little later Annie Jordan found her standing beside the road, where he had left her. She was looking up at the brightly lighted house at the top of the lane.

"Goodness!" cried Annie. "I thought you were lost, Rosie. Where on earth have you been?"

"Maybe I AM lost," replied the girl, and Annie, failing to see anything cryptic in the words, laughed gaily at the quaintness of them.

"Come on," she said, thrusting her arm through Rosabel's, "let's go back home. There's nothing doing here. And that wind cuts through one like a knife. Gee, it's fierce, isn't it?"

"I don't want to go in yet," protested Rosabel, hanging back. "Let's wait awhile. Let's wait till Dr. Smith comes out. He's up there with—with Alix Crown. Maybe he can tell us how—"

"Doc Smith isn't up there. He's gone up the road in his car with Dick Hurdle and—why, Rosie, you're shivering like a leaf. Have you got a chill? Come on home. We'll have Dr. Smith in as soon as he gets back to—"

"I don't want the doctor," cried Rosabel fiercely. "I won't have one, I tell you. I won't have one!"