e his back against it when the four men were upon
him.

The ten minutes that followed were among the most interesting of young
Devon's life. He had always liked a good fight, and this episode in the
great dim hall brought out all that was bloodthirsty and primitive in
him. For in the room above was Doris, and these men, whoever they were,
stood in the way of her freedom and happiness.

If he could have taken them on one by one he could have snapped their
necks in turn, and he would have done so without compunction. As it was,
with four leaping at him simultaneously, he called on all his reserve
strength, his skill in boxing, and the strategy of his foot-ball days.

His first blow sent the blond secretary to the floor, where he lay
motionless. After that it was hard to distinguish where blows fell. What
Devon wanted and was striving to reach was the throat of Shaw, but the
slippery thing eluded him.

He fought on with hands and feet, even drawing, against these odds, on
the _savate_ he had learned in Paris. Blood flowed from his nose, his
ear and his lip. Shaw's face was bleeding, too, and soon one of the
Italians had joined the meek young secretary in his slumbers on the
floor. Then Laurie felt his head agonizingly twisted backward, heard the
creak of a rusty bolt, and, in the next instant, was hurled headlong
through the suddenly opened door, to the snow-covered veranda.

As he pulled himself up, crouching for a return spring, Shaw, disheveled
and breathless on the threshold, jerkily addressed him.

"Try it again if you like, you young devil," he panted, "but remember
one thing: the next time you won't get off so easily."

The door slammed, and again the bolt shot into place. Laurie listened.
No sound whatever came from the inner hall. The old house was again
apparently dead, after its moments of fierce life. He slowly descended
the steps, and, bracing himself against the nearest tree, stared at the
house, still gasping from the effects of the struggle.

He was out of it, but he had left Doris behind. The fact sickened him.
So did the ignominy of his departure. He was not even to be followed.
His absence was all the gang desired. His impulse was to force the door
and again face the four of them. But he realized that he could
accomplish nothing against such odds, and certainly, as a prisoner in
the house, trussed up with Shaw's infernal rope, he would be of no use
to either Doris or himself. He decided to return