The cold, wet wind of late September howled around the house. Dorothy wished she had brought a revolver.

“Stop it! Betty, stop!” she hissed and forced her friend to crawl backward over the rough boards to the edge of the porch. “Stay here, and don’t make a sound. Do you want them out after us? For goodness’ sake, take a grip on yourself! I’m going back to the window and—not another peep out of you while I’m gone!” With this warning, she slithered away before Betty could voice an objection.

Lying flat before the window once more with her face almost level with the floor, she stared into the room. The scene had not changed. Nor had the three principals of the drama being enacted on the other side of the pane moved from their positions. A sudden gust tore loose the shutter at the back of the house, sending it crashing down on some other wooden object with terrific racket.

“Must have hit the cellar doors,” thought Dorothy.

The man with the cigar, who stood before the cold fireplace stopped talking. She saw him cock his head to one side and listen. The bald-headed man in the leather armchair kept his revolver levelled on the room’s third occupant, and snapped out a question. With a shrug, the man by the fireplace went on speaking. He was a dapper person, flashily dressed in a black and white shepherd’s plaid suit which contrasted disagreeably with the maroon overcoat worn open for comfort. Dorothy took a dislike to him at first sight. Not withstanding his mincing gestures, the man had the height and build of a heavyweight prizefighter. Now he leaned forward, emphasizing with a pudgy forefinger the point of his oratory which was directed toward the third member of the party.

Dorothy uttered an impatient exclamation. She could not hear a word. The roaring storm and the closed windows prevented her from catching even the rumble of their voices. She continued to gaze intently upon the prisoner, a well set up youth of eighteen or nineteen, curly-haired and intelligent looking. Her sympathy went out at once to this young fellow. He was bound hand and foot to the chair in which he sat. A blackened eye and his shirt, hanging in ribbons from his shoulders, told of a fight. Then she spied an overturned table, books and writing materials scattered over the rumpled rug.

“Whew!” she whistled softly. “He staged a little battle for ’em, anyway, I’ll bet!”

She smiled as she noticed that the youth’s opponents had likewise suffered. For the bald-headed man held a bloodstained handkerchief to his nose, while the other’s overcoat was ripped from collar to hem and he nursed a jaw that was evidently tender.

The room which lay beneath her scrutiny offered a decided contrast to the unkempt exterior of the house. The walls were completely lined with bookcases, reaching from ceiling to floor. The shelves must have held thousands of volumes. Essentially a man’s library, the furnishings were handsome, though they had evidently seen better days.

In reply to a question barked at him from the dapper prize fighter, the young prisoner shook his head in a determined negative. The big man spat out an invective. This time the boy smiled slightly, shook his head again. With a roar of fury that was audible to the watching girl outside, the prize fighter-bully strode over to his victim and struck him across the mouth.

That brutal action decided Dorothy. She wormed her way backward off the porch. Betty was still crouched where she had left her. She sprang up and caught her friend’s arm.

“Isn’t it terrible?” she whispered tensely. “He’s such a good-looking boy, too—don’t tell me they’ve killed him or anything?”

Without speaking, Dorothy led her around to the back of the house.

“No, they haven’t killed him,” she answered when they had reached the shelter of the apple orchard. “This is no movie thriller. But something pretty serious is going on in there. Now tell me—are you going to pull yourself together and be of some help? Because if you’re not, you can climb one of these trees and stay there until it’s all over. That’s the only safe place I know of—and even up there you’ll get into trouble if you start screaming again!”

“Well, I really couldn’t help it, Dorothy. He was such a darling looking boy and—”

“My goodness—what have his looks got to do with it? He’s in a peck of trouble—that’s the principal thing. I want to help him.”

“Oh, so do I!” asserted Betty eagerly. “I’ll be good, honest I will.”

“Obey orders?”

“Do my best.”

“O.K. then. I’m going round front. Those blackguards must have come in a car—and I’m going to find it.”

“But you can’t leave me here alone—”

“There you go again, silly! I’m not going to drive away in the car. I’ve got another plan. Listen! There’s a cellar door, somewhere back of the house I guess. It’s one of the flat kind that you pull up to open. I heard that shutter slam down on it.”

“I suppose you want me to open it?”

“Bullseye!”

“You needn’t be so superior,” Betty’s tone was aggrieved. “What’ll I do if it’s locked?”

“Oh, people ’way out in the country never lock their cellar doors,” Dorothy’s tone was impatient, her mind three jumps ahead.

“But suppose this one is?”

“Wait there until I come back. Hurry now—there’s no telling what’s going on in that room. So long—I’ll be with you in a few minutes. If you hear a crash, don’t scream!”

She raced away and as she reached the corner of the side porch, a quick glance over her shoulder told her that Betty was marching resolutely toward the cellar door.

This time Dorothy skirted the porch and toward the front of the house she came upon a weed-grown drive which swept in a quarter circle toward the road some fifty yards away. A limousine was parked before the entrance to the house. It was empty.

Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief. She hurried past the car and found that the drive ran round the farther side of the house, out to a small garage at the back. The garage doors were open, and inside she spied an ancient Ford. For some reason the sight of the Ford seemed to perturb her. She stood a while in deep thought.

Then as an idea struck home, she drew forth her flash light and sent its beam traveling over the interior of the garage. She did not take the precaution of closing the doors. The library was on the other side of the house and there was little danger of her light being seen. Suddenly she uttered a cry of satisfaction. Her light had brought into view about a dozen gasoline tins stacked in a corner. She lifted them one by one—all were empty. She hunted about and presently unearthed a short piece of rubber hose from under the seat of the automobile.

“First break tonight!” she said to herself. “Here’s hoping the luck lasts!”

A few minutes later, if anyone had been watching, they would have seen a girl in a slicker, her dark curly hair topped by an aviation helmet, leave the garage carrying two gasoline tins. These she took to the orchard and deposited them behind a couple of apple trees.

Her next movements were more puzzling. She walked back to the garage and around that little building to the side away from the main house. Again her flash light was brought into play. This time she focussed it on the land to the side and rear and saw that the low wall which partly encompassed the orchard ended at the back of the garage. There was no obstruction between the drive at the side of the house and a rough field that sloped sharply down the valley whence she and Betty had come. Then she realized that the house and orchard lay on a plateau-like rise of land which jutted out into the valley from the main ridge, the ground dropping steeply on three sides.

“Well, the scenery couldn’t be sweeter!” remarked Dorothy. “Now, I hope to goodness they’ve left the keys.”

It was blowing half a gale now, and rain in crystal rods drove obliquely through the flash light’s gleam. She switched off the light and stuffed it into a pocket of her dripping slicker and beat her way against the storm toward the house. Here she found the limousine, and hastened on toward the side porch.

Lying flat at the window once more, she saw that a fire had been started in the fireplace. The dapper person crouched before it, holding an iron poker between the burning logs.

Dorothy realized on the instant the fiendish torture those beasts were planning. She jumped to her feet and tiptoeing over the boards, raced for the car.

Her hand, fumbling on the dash, brought a faint jangle from a bunch of keys—

“Break number three!” she cried and slipped behind the steering wheel. As she switched on the ignition she brought her right foot down on the starter and when the powerful engine purred she fed it more gas and let in the clutch.

The car rolled forward and she swung it round the corner of the house toward the garage, with her thumb pressed down hard on the button of the horn.

“That’ll bring them out!” she chuckled and slipping into high sent the car hurtling off the drive, headed for the field beyond the garage. An instant later she dropped off the running board while the limousine raced into the field and down the steep hillside to the valley below—and destruction.

At the same moment Dorothy heard shouts from the house and footsteps pounding on the gravel. She wasted no time peering after the car. Turning on her heel, she flew round the garage and over to the rear of the house. The cellar door was open, Betty was standing on the top step.

“Down you go!” panted Dorothy. “Take this flash and switch on the light—quick!”

A slight shove sent Betty stumbling down the stone flight and Dorothy followed more slowly, bringing down the wide door over her head.

“The light, Betty, the light!” she cried.

“B-but we can’t go into the house—those men—”

“Never mind the men—do as you’re told. I can’t find the lock on this door in the dark. Where are you, anyway?”

“Right here,” said a small voice and the flash light gleamed.

Dorothy shot home the bolt and took the torch into her own hand.

“Come on!”

Without waiting to see if her order was obeyed, she ran to the stairs that led up to the first floor. At the top of the short flight, she found a closed door. She opened it and stepped into the kitchen, with Betty at her elbow. Locking the door behind them, she flashed her light about the room, then walked over to a table and pulled out the drawer.

“Here—take this!”

Betty stepped back as a large kitchen knife was thrust in her direction.

“Take it!” commanded Dorothy and again the smaller girl unwillingly did as she was told.

“But—but you can’t mean we’re going to fight them with knives,” she spluttered, “why, Dorothy—I just couldn’t—”

“Don’t talk rot!” Dorothy’s tone was caustic. “Please cut the argument, now—I know what I’m doing!”

Betty trotted at her heels as she crossed the kitchen toward the front of the house, passed through a swinging door into the dining room. An arched doorway to their right, brought the hall into view, and beyond it, another door stood open, leading into the lighted library, where they saw its single occupant still tied to his chair.

“Go in there and cut him loose,” directed Dorothy.

She pushed Betty into the room and raced for the open front door. She heard the sound of voices from the drive as she neared the end of the hall. She could see the figures of two men just beyond the front steps. Just as her hand reached the door handle, they turned in her direction and the black night was seared with the sharp red flash from an automatic.