which in past years had borne luscious burdens.
The man crouching inside set his eyes intently on the opening, while on
his body and limbs the muscles rose and ridged themselves for the coming
battle. The sword of yellow light flickered lower and lower, revealing
the beech logs to which the bark still clung, and the chinking between
them. Lower, and around, till it shone in the honest, unsuspecting eyes
of The Prince, and glistened on his withers, and found the spot on his
shiny coat behind which his heart was beating. A hand holding a
bull's-eye lantern came through the window; another hand holding a huge
revolver, cocked, crept like a snake to its side. Then up from the
darkness beneath the window sprang two other hands, long, slender, white
and strong as steel. Around the wrists of the assassin these two hands
closed in a grip so fierce that it brought a cry of pain and fright from
the one outside, and lantern and revolver fell to the soft earth inside
the smoke-house. Then ensued a silent struggle, in which the captive
strove with fiendish power born of terror and rage to free himself.
Glenning, on his knees, sent all his strength to his vise-like hands.
Not a word was spoken, not another sound was uttered. In the gloom the
two men strove as two animals might, and their heavy breathing alone
broke the stillness. Not for nothing had John Glenning kept himself in
rigorous physical training from the first year he went to college. All
his hoarded strength leaped up at his call, and gave him the victory.
Gradually the frantic struggles of the marauder stopped, and finally he
ceased resisting. Then Glenning, with his hands still set in a
superhuman grasp, spoke from between his clenched teeth.

"Who are you?"

There was no answer.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

Still no answer came.

Then the captor began to draw down on the arms he held, forcing the
bones against the log at the bottom of the window. Down, down, and a
groan of pain escaped his prisoner.

"Who are you?" he asked, for the third time.

"Don't break my arms!" said a voice.

Glenning recognized it.

"Are you Travers?"

"Yes--yes--I'm Travers! Let me go--for God's sake! You're killing me!"

"Who sent you to kill this horse?"

A little more force was brought to bear with the question.

"Marston--Devil Marston! Ease up a little and I'll talk--I swear I'll
talk!"

John did as the man requested, though not lessening his grip on the
wrists.

"Now