He sprang at the man, his chin still sunk on his chest, but with his
arms swinging like the spokes of a wheel. His opponent struck back
heavily, violently, but each move of his arm seemed only to open up
some vulnerable spot. Blows beat upon his chin, upon his nose, his eyes;
blows jabbed him in the ribs, drove his breath from his stomach, ground
his teeth together, cut the flesh from his cheeks. He sank to his knees,
with his arms clasping his head.

"Get up!" roared Lathrop. "Stand up to it, you coward!"

But the man had no idea of standing up to it. Howling with pain, he
scrambled toward the door, and fled staggering down the hall.

At the same moment the automobile that a few minutes before had passed
up the road came limping to the gate, and a half-dozen men in uniform
sprang out of it. From the window Lathrop saw them spread across the
lawn and surround the house.

"They've got him!" he said. He pointed to the prostrate figure on the
floor. "He and the other one," he explained, breathlessly, "are New York
crooks! They have been looting in the wake of the Reds, disguised as
soldiers. I knew they weren't even amateur soldiers by the mistakes in
their make-up, and I made that bluff of riding away so as to give them
time to show what the game was. Then, that provost guard in the motor
car stopped me, and when they said who they were after, I ordered them
back here. But they had a flat tire, and my bicycle beat them."

In his excitement he did not notice that the girl was not listening,
that she was very pale, that she was breathing quickly, and trembling.