Pete Stearns, dressed once more like a citizen of the United States, descended again to the lower floor by the back stairs and began a search of the pantry. He foraged some crackers, a jar of cheese, and some potted tongue, and with these he returned to the second floor, where he found the social secretary awaiting him in the sun parlor. Mary Wayne was a normal person again. The soot of the coal chute had disappeared, as well as the fragile vestments; she had not taken her entire wardrobe aboard the yacht.

Pete was still grumbling over her treatment of him. It was ungenerous, unfair, he contended; she was coldly ignoring all his prowess of the afternoon and evening and dwelling only upon a single incident in which he felt entirely justified in exercising reasonable precaution.

"I'd have gone down the coal chute myself if you'd only waited a minute," he said. "You didn't give me a fair chance."

"I notice you didn't follow me," she answered contemptuously. "You waited for me to find my way out of the cellar and open the kitchen door."

"Well, what was the use——"

"Please open that can of tongue. Do you want me to die of hunger?"

He shrugged gloomily and attacked the can. Mary picked up the telephone instrument and called for a number. Presently she was talking.

"Send Miss Norcross to the telephone."

Pete repressed a start and worked steadily with the can-opener. But his ears were alert. As for Mary, she appeared to have forgotten his presence.

"Oh, Nell; is that you? This is Mary talking. No; I'm not in Larchmont. I'm home. Oh, yes; we were there. But something awful happened. I want you to come around here right away. I've just got to talk to you; I need your advice. What? No; I can't tell you about it over the 'phone; it would take too long. Please hurry; it's important. I—I want your moral support. I'm afraid the beginning of the end is here, and you just can't desert me now. You've got to come. All right. Take a taxi, if you can find one. But hurry, anyhow."

As she replaced the receiver Pete Stearns was facing her. And then she remembered. A slow flush came into her cheeks.

"I've been guessing for a long time that there was something queer about you," he observed, with a cynical smile. "So it's 'Miss Norcross' at the other end of the wire, is it? And who are you?"

"You had no business to listen to a conversation," she said angrily.

"Strikes me it was stupid of you to forget I was here, Miss Norcross—Wayne—or whoever you are."

He eyed her maliciously.

"So it's the beginning of the end, is it? Well, let me in on it."

Mary returned her glance defiantly.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said. "It isn't any of your business."

"But, of course, you don't deny you're an impostor?"

"Well, if it comes to being an impostor, Mr. Valet, I don't believe you'll stand very much investigating."

Pete regarded her calmly.

"Let's form an alliance," he suggested.

"An alliance of what? Fraud?"

"Something like that. I see you confess it."

"I confess nothing," she retorted hotly. "And I don't care for an alliance."

"It might pay," he said, thoughtfully. "If we keep up the teamwork I believe we can get by yet. Between my ingenuity and your references——"

"Stop!"

Mary was shuddering at the allusion to references. Not only the thing itself, but the very word, had become hateful.

"Don't talk to me," she ordered. "I won't discuss anything with you."

Pete shrugged and pushed a plate of crackers and cheese toward her.

"Let's talk about your friend, anyhow," he suggested.

Mary rose to her feet abruptly and ran toward the door that opened into the hall. She opened it half-way and stood there, listening. Then she turned and beckoned mysteriously. When he had joined her she whispered:

"I thought I heard something—down-stairs. Listen."

For half a minute neither spoke.

"Sounds like somebody talking," he said, in a low voice. "But it seems far away. Maybe it's out in the street."

She shook her head.

"I'm positive it's in this house. It's down-stairs. There! Hear it?"

He nodded.

"Maybe Aunt Caroline and the rest of 'em have come home again," he suggested.

"No; it's a man's voice, but it's a strange one. It's—burglars!"

"It might be, of course," he assented.

"Let's telephone for the police. Hurry!"

"No. Let's investigate first. We can telephone afterward."

He stepped softly out into the hall and started toward the front of the house. Mary seized his arm.

"Isn't there a pistol—or something—that we could take?" she whispered, nervously.

"Don't believe there's a gun in the house. Bill doesn't own one—except a shotgun."

"Get it."

He tiptoed toward Bill's room and reappeared with a double-barreled weapon, the mere sight of which gave Mary a thrill of reassurance. It was unloaded, but Pete did not disclose that fact.

In single file, with Pete leading, they moved cautiously along the hall in the direction of the main staircase. At the top of the flight they paused. There was a light burning in the lower hall. Mary pinched him and pointed at it.

"I'm going back to telephone the police," she said.

"Not yet. Wait!"

He started gingerly down the staircase, the shotgun thrust boldly forward in order not to betray its utter unpreparedness. Mary hesitated, but when he had descended half a dozen steps she followed, curiosity overwhelming her.

They heard the voice again, more clearly now:

"Understand, now; no noise. If we make a racket we'll have the bulls here. The first man makes a noise gets what's comin' to him."

Pete and the girl exchanged glances.

"A whole gang of them!" she said, in a frightened whisper.

Pete placed his finger against his lips and descended half a dozen steps more. She crept along behind him, clinging to the banisters.

The Marshall mansion was of old-fashioned construction. Over many of the doors there were transoms. This was true of the door that separated the library from the lower hall. As the pair of adventurers halted again and leaned stealthily over the railing they could see that there was a light in the library. The door was closed, but the transom stood open nearly to its full width.

Through the transom they could view a rectangular section of the library floor. Ordinarily, from where they stood, a table would have been visible, a chair or two, and a rug. But now table, chairs and rug had vanished and there was nothing but smooth parquetry.

"They're packing up the things!" gasped Mary.

Pete answered with a gesture imposing caution.

As they watched the open space in the library a man stepped into view. He came to a halt and, from where he stood, was visible to them from the waist up. He did not look exactly like a burglar; he was too well dressed to fit Mary's notion of the fraternity. He was too stout, also, for Mary's idea of a burglar called for a lean and hungry Cassius. As he paused in the center of the library, he made a commanding motion with his arms. It was a sign for silence on the part of persons who were invisible to the watchers on the staircase.

Then he began to speak again.

"Now, what I said about keepin' your lips buttoned goes. Get me? I'm runnin' this and I don't want to have any trouble. There ain't goin' to be any yellin' or stampin' or any other kind of noise, except what can't be helped. Everybody understand that, now?"

There was a murmur from an unseen throng, and evidently an assent, for the speaker nodded.

"And I want everybody to be careful not to break nothin'," he continued. "You don't want to break no chairs or tables or nothin' like that. And be careful of them pictures on the walls."

"Why, they're going to take every single thing!" murmured Mary, in a shocked voice.

"S-sh. Wait!" answered Pete, staring wide-eyed at the man whose body was framed in the transom.

"All right, then," the man was saying. "Only don't forget. The gentleman who give us the use of this house is a friend of ours and we don't want to get him into no trouble."

"Aw, we're wise; we're wise," remarked a voice whose owner they could not see. "Start somethin'."

Mary was clutching Pete's arm and staring at him with widely questioning eyes. The gentleman who gave the use of the house! Why——

"Now, the winner of this bout, gents——" The beefy man was talking again. "The winner of this bout is goin' to be matched against the champion. Everything here is strictly on its merits. The men will wear six-ounce gloves, accordin' to regulations. Both of 'em was weighed in this afternoon at three o'clock, with the scale set at one hundred and thirty-five, and neither of 'em tipped the beam. And the bout goes to a finish."

There was a rumbling chorus of satisfaction from the invisible audience, and the speaker checked it sharply.

"Lay off the noise, now. That's just what we ain't goin' to have. You guys paid your good money to get in here and I guess you don't want trouble any more'n I do. Now, in this corner is Charley Collins, the Trenton Bearcat, lightweight champion of New Jersey."

As he spoke another person stepped into the field of vision. It was unquestionably the Bearcat. He was a blond-haired youth of sturdy proportions, clad in a breech clout, a pair of shoes and two six-ounce gloves. He nodded carelessly in response to the introduction and began testing the floor with his feet.

"In this corner," continued the stout man, "is Kid Whaley, pride of the East Side."

Whereat came briskly into view Signor Antonio Valentino. He was grinning cheerfully and bowing right and left. There was a suppressed murmur of admiration. Whatever his omissions as a sculptor of Carrara marble, the Kid had neglected nothing that would make his own body a living statue of grace and brawn. Save for the twisted nose and the tin ear, he was an undeniably fine specimen. His attire matched that of the Bearcat.

"Now, when I say 'Break,'" remarked the master of ceremonies, addressing himself to the Kid and the Bearcat, "I want you to break. Understand! Hittin' with one arm free goes, but no rough stuff in the clinches. And when you break, break clean and step back. No hittin' in the breakaways. All set?"

The two young gentlemen in breech clouts nodded nonchalantly.

"Go to your corners."

The Kid and the Bearcat stepped out of sight, and likewise the beefy man.

"It's—it's awful!" stammered Mary Wayne to her companion on the staircase. "Make them stop it!"

Pete viewed her with a look of amazement.

"Stop it?" he echoed, incredulously. "What for? Why, this is a bout they've been trying to pull off for the last two months. Stop it? Why, we're lucky to be in on it!"

There was nothing but horror in Mary's eyes.

"Then I'll get the police to stop it!" she hissed. "I'm going to telephone now."

"And get Bill Marshall into all kinds of trouble?"

She hesitated. Doubtless it would make a great deal of trouble for Bill Marshall, not only with the authorities of the law, but with Aunt Caroline. He deserved the worst, of course, and yet—— Ever since the middle of that afternoon she had felt that the administering of justice to Bill was something that lay properly in her own hands. If she had cared to analyze the matter closely she would have found that it was not justice she sought so much as vengeance.

And while she still hesitated at Pete's reminder, a bell sounded in the library.

She looked again toward the open transom. The Kid and the Bearcat were in view again, no longer nonchalantly inert, but in animated action. Their bodies were tense and swaying, their arms moving in a bewildering series of feints, their feet weaving in and out in a strange series of steps that seemed to have an important relation to their task. The Bearcat was grim, the Kid smiling contentedly.

Suddenly the blond one shot an arm forward and behind it lunged his body. Mary clutched the banister. But Signor Antonio Valentino, still smiling, merely flirted his head a few inches and the gloved fist went into space across his shoulder. At the same time, he seemed to be doing something himself. Mary could not, with all her inexperience, discern exactly what it was, but she saw the Bearcat's head snap backward and she heard him grunt audibly as he clinched.

"The Kid'll eat him," whispered Pete. "Gee, I wish I had a bet down!"

Mary shuddered. She decided to go up-stairs, but somehow she could not release her grip on the banisters. She felt that she ought to go away and hide from this horror in Aunt Caroline's library. Even if she could not move, at least, she thought, she could close her eyes. But when she tried to close them, somehow they persisted in staying open.

The two young sculptors on the other side of the transom were now entering upon their artistic task with amazing speed and zest. Sometimes it took them entirely beyond the vision of the watchers on the staircase. Then they would come zigzagging back into view again; first their legs, then their bodies, then their flying arms and low-bent heads. There was a constant smacking and thudding of gloves, a heavy padding of feet on the parquet floor. Now and then Mary heard the sharp voice of the beefy man: "Break! Break clean!" Once she saw him stride roughly between the panting pair reckless of his own safety, fling them apart with a sweep of his arms and say something in a savage tone to the Bearcat. But no sooner had he passed between them than they met again behind his back; the Bearcat swinging a glove that landed flush on the celebrated tin ear.

The bell rang again. Kid Whaley stopped an arm that was moving in mid air, dropped it to his side and walked quickly away. The Bearcat also walked out of sight.

Mary felt as if she could breathe again.

"Thank Heaven, it's over!" she said.

Pete looked at her pityingly.

"It's just begun," he explained patiently. "That was only the first round. There may be a dozen or fifteen, or twenty, or Lord knows how many yet before they finish it. It won't end till one of 'em goes to sleep."

"To sleep? How can any man fall asleep when somebody is pounding him all over the head and body?"

"Wait and see," answered Pete with a grin.

But Mary was not minded to wait and see. All that filled her mind was resentment and horror that Aunt Caroline's library should have been loaned by her unredeemed nephew for such an awful purpose. She had a new account to square with William Marshall. She did not intend to tell Aunt Caroline; she would spare that shock to her benefactress. She phrased a little silent prayer of thanks because Aunt Caroline was safely removed from the scene of blood and violence. But there would be no softening of the blow when she came to deal with Bill.

"I'm going down to stop it," she said suddenly.

Pete seized her arm and held it.

"You can't think of it!" he said, in a shocked whisper. "You'd only be insulted and laughed at. And besides——"

He was about to remark that it was too excellent to stop when the bell rang for the second round.

To Mary it seemed no different from the first round. The two young men in breech clouts alternately flailed and hugged each other, the referee constantly danced between them crying, "Break!" and the stamping of swiftly shifting feet echoed again through the darkened recesses of the big house. Then another bell and another period of waiting.

"This Bearcat is good," explained Pete, carefully. "He's better than I figured him. The Kid'll get him, but it may take him some time. Do you notice the way the Kid handles that left? Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's—it's horrible."

"Oh, not at all; it's clever. This other boy has a pretty neat left himself. But it's his right that the Kid's watching, and he'd better, for it's wicked. Only trouble with the Bearcat is he telegraphs every punch. Now, when they come up again I want you to notice—— S-sh! There's the bell."

Mary, still gripping the banister, gazed with horrid fascination at the further desecration of Aunt Caroline's black walnut library. And yet, while the spectacle outraged her eyes and violated all the standards by which she measured domestic life in the American home, a subconscious partisanship was breeding within her. She hated this Whaley, almost as much as she hated Bill Marshall. Why didn't the blond bruiser annihilate him forthwith? Why didn't he make an end of the thing at once? Why wasn't Kid Whaley beaten ruthlessly to the floor and stamped under foot, as became his deserts?

She lifted her hand from the banister and clenched her fists. She was not aware that the cave woman was awakening within her, but it was. She thought she was still horrified; and so she was—in the civilized part of her. But Mary Wayne did not possess a hundred per cent of civilization, nor do any of her sisters, although she and they may be ignorant of the lesser fraction of savagery that hides within.

The third round was followed by a fourth, a fifth and a sixth, and still she stood on the stairway, with a conscience that cried aloud in behalf of Aunt Caroline and a surge of primitive rage that demanded victory for the Trenton Bearcat. Pete Stearns was wholly given over to the spell of the battle.

Came the seventh round, more furious than any that went before. The invisible crowd in the library was becoming vocal. Throaty voices were demanding blood. And blood there was, for the Bearcat's crimson nose paid tribute to the efficiency of the Kid, while over one of the Kid's eyes was a cut that witnessed the counter prowess of the Bearcat. Some of the blood was dripping on Aunt Caroline's parquet floor, but not enough for the crowd.

Round eight. The Kid sent two lefts to the face without return. They clinched. The Kid uppercut to the jaw in the breakaway. The Bearcat swung right and left to the head. The Kid landed a right to the body, and followed it with a hook to the jaw. The Bearcat came back with a volley of short-arm jabs, rocking the Kid's head. The Kid rushed, sending right and left to the face. They clinched. The Kid swung a left to the jaw. It shook the Bearcat. The Kid——

Mary Wayne, following all this with blazing eyes and panting bosom, wholly free to sense the combat in its larger aspects because she knew nothing of its superb technique, was leaning half-way across the banisters, a battle-cry hovering on her lips, when her quick ear caught the sound of a key turning in a lock. It had the effect of a cold shock. She was the civilized woman again.

Fear and apprehension turned her eyes in the direction of the front door. Yes, it was opening. Police? No!

Aunt Caroline Marshall, Bill Marshall, the butler, and a file of the Marshall servants!