! Only fair, you know! Eh, what!"

On he came. He was so near that in one active bound he would be upon
her, but he advanced warily, with hands outstretched.

"Oh, what shall I do!" she sobbed. "Go back, you brute! I--I hate you.
There are policemen in the wood. I'll scream for help!"

"No need, Miss Manning," said a calm voice which seemed to come from
the circumambient air. "Don't cry out or be alarmed, no matter what
happens!"

A hand, not Robert Fenley's caught her shoulder in a reassuring grip.
A tall figure brushed by, and she heard a curious sound that had a
certain smack in it--a hard smack, combined with a thudding effect, as
if some one had smitten a pillow with a fist. A fist it was assuredly,
and a hard one; but it smote no pillow. With a gurgling cough, Robert
Fenley toppled headlong to the edge of the lake, and lay there
probably some minutes, for the man who had hit him knew how and where
to strike.

Sylvia did not scream. She had recognized Trenholme's voice, but she
felt absurdly like fainting. Perhaps she swayed slightly, and her
rescuer was aware of it, for he gathered her up in his arms as he
might carry a scared child, nor did he set her on her feet when they
were clear of the trees and in the open park.

"You are quite safe now," he said soothingly. "You are greatly upset,
of course, and you need a minute or two to pull yourself together; but
no one will hurt you while I am here. When you feel able to speak,
you'll tell me where to take you, and I'll be your escort."

"I can speak now, thank you," said Sylvia, with a composure that was
somewhat remarkable. "Please put me down!"

He obeyed, but she imagined he gave her a silent hug before his clasp
relaxed. Even then his left hand still rested on her shoulder in a
protective way.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SPREADING OF THE NET

That John Trenholme should be in the right place at the right
moment, and that the place should happen to be one where his presence
was urgently required in Sylvia Manning's behalf, was not such a
far-fetched coincidence as it might be deemed, for instance, by a
jury. Juries are composed mainly of bald-headed men, men whose shining
pates have been denuded of hair by years and experience, and these
factors dry the heart as surely as they impoverish the scalp.
Consequently, juries (in bulk, be it understood; individual jurors
may, perhaps, retain the emotional equipment of a Chatterton) are
skeptical when asked to