Katherine's casual acquaintances thought of her as a cool, unemotional young woman, and when asked for their estimate of her would give it with confidence that it was accurate. The few who knew her better were less sure what they thought of her, and there was considerable diversity in their opinions. She had a strong will and plenty of confidence in it. Until she had found herself standing between Harvey West and her father, she never had the least doubt that in any situation she would be able to do what she wanted. But without knowing it she liked to let her impulses direct her, and her confidence that her will could, if necessary, overrule them gave them freer play than they would have had in a weaker personality. She was keenly sensitive—and this she recognized—to the atmosphere of her immediate environment.

To-day the gray of the dripping sky and the sullen river and the pasty macadam road seemed to have got into her thoughts and to pervade everything. There was a feeling of eternity in the gathering twilight as though there had never been anything else and never would be. But she knew there had; it was only three days since she and Harvey had driven along this road. She recalled the glisten of the sunlight on the river, and the crimson of the hard maples stained by the first early frost, and she knew it was not the sunshine nor the tingle in the air nor the beautiful way in which Ned and Nick flew along stride for stride over the hard white road, but something else, something quite different, which had made her glad that Sunday morning. She looked straight ahead and tried to imagine that not the wooden English groom, but Harvey, sat beside her. Then realizing whither her imaginings were drifting, she pulled herself up sharply.

“You sentimental idiot!” she thought.

The groom spoke. “Beg pardon, Miss Katherine?” and she knew she must have thought aloud.

Just then a black tree stump at the roadside seemed to spring out of the ghostly twilight, and Nick, who never had the blues, amused himself by shying at it. Ned caught the spirit of the lark and over the next mile these two good friends of Katherine's supplied her with just the kind of tonic she needed.

It was late when she reached home and she had but a narrow margin of time left in which to dress for dinner; but telling the groom not to take the horses to the stable she hurried into the house and came out a moment later with a handful of sugar. The two beautiful heads turned toward her as she came down the steps and Nick gave a satisfied little whicker. She fed them alternately, a lump at a time, talking to them all the while in the friendly bantering way they liked. She was quite impartial with the sugar, but while Ned with lowered head was sniffing at her pockets for more, she laid her cheek against Nick's white, silky nose and whispered to him:—

“I think I like you best to-night. You did just right to shy at that stump. No, Ned, it wouldn't be good for you to eat any more sugar just before dinner. Good-by. If it wouldn't shock father and dent the floor, I'd take you into the house with me. But I don't suppose you'd like it, though.”

Katherine was glad she was late and that she had to dress in a hurry. What she dreaded was being left alone with nothing to do but think. She had gone over the ground again and again until she had lost her sense of proportion. She had tried to believe that the raid was right and that her father's methods were above reproach; she had tried to be unwavering in her loyalty to his cause, but in spite of herself McNally's allusions and the fragmentary conversations she had overheard raised doubts which her father's evasions did not set at rest. In spite of herself her sympathies swung to the square, straightforward, courageous young fellow who had got into her heart without her knowing it. She had tried to make herself believe her father's insinuations about Jim Weeks; but what Harvey had told her, in his undiscriminating, hero-worshipping way, had made too deep an impression for that.

When she had finished dressing, as she stood before the mirror to take a final survey, she addressed a parting remark to the figure in the glass:—

“It won't do you any good to go on bothering this way. You haven't anything to do now but go down to dinner and be as charming as possible, particularly to Mr. McNally, whom you cordially detest. When the time comes to do something, I hope you'll do it right.”

It was just seven o'clock when she came down the stairs to be informed by the butler that the gentlemen had not come home yet, and should he serve dinner at once?

Katherine waited nearly half an hour, trying to amuse herself with a very pictorial magazine, and, finding that tiresome, by playing coon songs at the piano. But the piano reminded her of Mr. McNally, and she didn't want to think of him; so giving up trying to wait she ordered dinner.

Dining alone when you have made up your mind to it beforehand is not an unmixed evil; but in Katherine's frame of mind it was about as irritating as anything could be. When it was over she called for her coffee in a big cup, and she drank it, black and bitter, with a relish. The frown which for the last hour had been contracting her level brows disappeared, for she had thought of something to do. As she rose from the table she said to the butler:—

“Will you order the carriage, please, right away. I'm going out.”

Porter was with McNally in one of the offices of the M. & T. station. The two had been sitting there ever since the building had been seized by the deputies, getting satisfactory reports from station after station as the raiders moved up the line. Porter was on the point of starting home for dinner when the reports began coming in from Tillman City. The first of the yellow sheets the boy brought them simply repeated the news that had come in so many times that afternoon. The station was in the hands of the C. & S.C. men, and there had been no resistance. But the second sheet was less satisfactory, for it told of Stevens's escape on the yard engine.

Porter read it and exclaimed petulantly, “McDowell must have been asleep when he let a man get away like that.”

“Do you think there's much harm done?” asked McNally.

“I'm afraid so. Weeks will hear all about it in a few minutes, if he hasn't already, and he's sure to hit back. He moves quick, too.”

“We can wire McDowell to stay right where he is, and rush through another train with re-enforcements,” suggested McNally. “We may not be able to get the rest, but we can at least keep what we've got.”

“You'd better make up another train, anyway. We can fill it up with men from our carshops. McDowell had better keep right on up the line. If we have to fight, it'll be better to do it at some small place than at Tillman. We're less likely to be interfered with. Tell McDowell to go slow and not too far.”

The order to McDowell with the promise of reeforcements was sent out in time to catch him before he left Tillman, and then McNally turned his attention to massing his reserve. At the end of an hour and a half of hard work he saw the last files of the rear guard march down the platform and into the train. His frown expressed dissatisfaction, for these men were not so good fighting material as those McDowell had captained. Their manner was sheepish; they did not finger lovingly the clubs they had been provided with, and altogether they seemed to feel a much greater respect for law and order than was appropriate to the occasion.

They were the best men available, however, and there were several hundred of them, and McNally was about to give the order which would send them up the road to the succor of McDowell, when Porter came hurrying toward him from the telegraph office.

“Don't send those men out yet, McNally,” he said. “There's something wrong here. I think they've bagged McDowell.”

The train despatcher came into the waiting room, and seeing them walked rapidly toward them.

“Something has gone wrong, gentlemen. We've been talking to Gilsonville and he's all balled up. He isn't the same man who was there fifteen minutes ago.”

“They've got past McDowell then,” said McNally. “And they couldn't have done that without catching him. We'd better get that train away as fast as possible then, hadn't we?”

“I don't think so,” said Porter. “Have them ready to start at a minute's notice, and we'll plan out what's the best thing to do.”

Back in the little office again Porter explained his plan. “You see,” he said, “these fellows are not likely to be very much in a fight. We don't know how many men Weeks has got, but the farther down the line he comes the weaker he'll be. If we let him come far enough we can do the same trick to him that he must have done to McDowell; but if we meet him halfway, he may beat us. That leaves us at his mercy.”

“Do you think Weeks is on the train himself?” asked McNally.

“Can't tell. It would be like him. If he isn't, that young West is. Most likely West is, anyway.”

“He's the man that blocks our game, if he is a fool. If anything should happen to him, there wouldn't be any question as to who was receiver of the road.”

Porter said nothing and there was a long silence. Then McNally went on, speaking slowly and guardedly:—

“If there is anything of a mix-up such a thing would be likely enough to happen. He's young enough and cocky enough to get hurt quite naturally.”

Then Porter spoke quickly, for he read the unsaid meaning in the words. “That's going too far. I want the road, but not that way.”

McNally's drooping lids quivered, but otherwise his face was expressionless. He made no pretence that Porter had misunderstood him. He spoke as though unheeding the interruption.

“If we bring about his disappearance for a day or two,—it needn't hurt him any,—we'll control the road, fight or no fight.”

He had meant to say something more, but he stopped, his eyes fixed on the opening door. Following his gaze Porter turned.

“Katherine!” he exclaimed.

With automatic courtesy, McNally rose and drew up a chair for her, but Katherine did not take it. She had worn a high-collared black velvet cloak over her house dress, and she drew it off and threw it over the desk. Then coming up behind her father she touched his forehead lightly with her cool hands.

“Keeping everlastingly at it,” she said, trying to speak lightly, “without any dinner or anything. Is business getting so very, very serious?”

The tenderness of it touched Porter, and though he felt that she should not be there he could not send her away.

“We're right in the thick of it now,” he said.

“It will all be over one way or the other in a day or two.”

“And then,” said Katherine, with a little laugh, “and then I'll have somebody to play with again.”

She stooped and kissed him, and then noticing that McNally was still standing she addressed him for the first time.

“Please don't wait for me to sit down. I'm going to stay right here.”

Porter yielded to the restfulness of having her there and sat with closed eyes, while she stroked the trembling lids with the tips of her fingers. Neither of the men spoke, and at last Katherine broke the silence.

“Don't you think,” she said to her father, “that everything would go just as well if you came home with me now and took a little rest? You'll feel lots better to-morrow, if you do, and there's a to-morrow coming, you know. It isn't likely that anything more will happen tonight, is it?”

“I'm afraid it is,” said McNally. “You see we think Weeks is coming down the line now, with a trainful of armed men, and he may force us into a fight before morning.”

“I see,” said Katherine. “That is, when his army meets the one you sent up the line this afternoon.”

Porter moved his head free from her hands and asked sharply,—

“What do you know about that, dear?”

“Just what Senator Jones told me,” she answered. “He got off the train at Sawyerville and drove over to the Club to telephone.”

“Do you know which Senator Jones it was?” asked McNally. “Was it the one they call 'Sporty'?”

“Yes,” laughed Katherine; “I'm very sure it was that one.”

McNally turned quickly to Porter. “He's got it in for your people, hasn't he?”

“Yes,” the other answered; “but he can't do much harm. Nobody pays any attention to him. Do you know, Katherine, whether his telephoning had anything to do with us?”

“I'll tell you everything I know about it,” she said, and she recounted what she knew of the doings of the Senator on that afternoon.

“Is that bad news?” she asked, when she had finished.

“We can hardly tell till we see what happens next,” said McNally.

Katherine seated herself in the chair McNally had placed for her, and listened while her father and McNally talked over their plans and speculated upon the probable import of the messages which kept coming in. There was no attempt to keep Katherine in the dark as to what their plans were, and for the time she had given up looking at the perplexing aspects of the situation, and was enjoying the action and excitement of it. But as the clock ticked off one hour and then another, she noted her father's increasing weariness, and she determined to make another attempt to get him home, where he could, at least, have a few hours' rest.

She rose, and walking around behind him, as she had done before, she clasped her hands over his eyes, and said:—

“You're completely worn out, dad. Please come home. I don't believe anything is going to happen after all.”

Porter sighed wearily; but he said, “My dear, if Jim Weeks is coming down the line, something is sure to happen.”

“Do you think he's on the train himself?” she asked.

McNally looked up quickly. It was not the question, but something that the question suggested to him, that made him say:—

“Probably not. We think young West is in charge of the gang.”

Katherine's hands were still clasped over her father's eyes, and McNally took the opportunity this afforded him to accompany his words with a meaning look that was insolent in its intentness. In spite of herself Katherine felt the blood mounting into her cheeks and forehead, and McNally, seeing the blush, made no effort to conceal his smile. Katherine did not flinch from his gaze, but returned it squarely. Dropping her hands to her father's shoulders, she said steadily:—

“I suppose he is on the train. He likes that sort of thing. Of course Mr. McNally will lead our forlorn hope when it starts out.”

She smiled as she said it, for he winced under the thrust.

He rose hurriedly, and as he moved toward the door he spoke to Porter.

“I've got some business to attend to with Wilkins. I'll be back soon.”

When he had left the room Porter turned to Katherine.

“You'd better go home now. I can't go until we know what is going on out on the road. I'll come as soon as I can, but you must go now.”

He had spoken gently, but with a finality that left Katherine no hope of persuading him. He took up her cloak and threw it over her shoulders, and kissed her.

“Good night. I'll come along by and by.”

“If you don't, I'll come back after you.”

Without waiting to hear her father's dissent, which she knew would follow this declaration, she fled from the room and down the steps to her carriage.

As she settled herself among the robes and cushions she heard McNally's voice:—

“Can you find the right men to do it?”

The door slammed and the carriage clattered away with Katherine wondering what “it” was.