As the flames broke through the roof, Langford came rushing up where the group stood a little apart from the press.  
“Dick! I have been looking for you everywhere,” he cried, hoarsely.
 
“What’s the trouble, old man?” asked Gordon, quietly.
 
“I have something to tell you,” said Langford, in a low voice. “Come quick—let’s go back to your rooms. Why, girls—”
 
“We will go, too,” said Mary, with quiet decision. She had caught a glimpse of Red Sanderson’s face through the crowd, and she thought he had leered at her. She had been haunted by the vague feeling that she must have known the man who had attempted to carry her off—that dreadful night; but she had never been able to concentrate the abstract, fleeting impressions into comprehensive substance—never until she had seen that scar and glancing away in terror saw that Langford, too, had seen; but she was not brave enough to lose herself and Louise in the crowd where that man was. She could not. He had leered at Louise, too, last night at supper. They could not ask the protection of Gordon and Langford back to the hotel then, when Langford’s handsome, tanned face was white with the weight of what he had to tell.
 
“It will be best,” he agreed, unexpectedly. “Come—we must hurry!”
 
It was Williston’s “little girl” whom he took under his personal protection, diving up the street in the teeth of the gale which blew colder every moment, with a force and strength that kept Mary half the time off her feet. A gentler knight was Gordon—though as manly. All was dark around the premises. There was no one lurking near. Everybody was dancing attendance on the court-house holocaust. Gordon felt for his keys.
 
“How good it is to get out of the wind,” whispered Louise. This proceeding smacked so much of the mysterious that whispering followed as a natural sequence.
 
They stepped within. It was inky black.
 
“Lock the door,” said Langford, in a low voice.
 
Gordon complied, surprised, but asking no question. He knew his friend, and had faith in his judgment. Then he lighted a lamp that stood on his desk.
 
“Why did you do that?” asked Louise, gravely.
 
“What?”
 
“Lock the door.”
 
“I don’t know,” he answered, honestly. “I didn’t think you would notice the click. Ask Paul.”
 
“I’ll explain in a minute,” said Langford. He stepped to the windows and drew the blinds closely.
 
“Now that I have you safe,” he said, lightly, “I’ll confess I had an old woman’s scare. It came to me that as long as you are not, strictly speaking, on kind and loving terms with—every one west of the river,—and this being such an all-round nasty night anyway, why, I’d just spirit you home and give the charged atmosphere a chance of clearing a little.”
 
Gordon looked at him steadily a moment. His face did not pale. Yet he knew that Langford had heard—or suspected—more than he intended to tell—then. It was good to see him shrug his shoulders in unconcern for the sake of the two white-faced girls who sat there in his stiff office chairs.
 
“You are an old duffer, Paul,” he said, in pretended annoyance. “You treat me like a child. I won’t stand it always. You’ll see. Some day I’ll rebel—and—then—”
 
“Meanwhile, I’ll just trot these ladies back to the hotel,” said Langford. “But you must promise to keep your head inside. We’re fixtures until we have that promise.”
 
“What, lock me up and run off with—all the ladies! I guess not! Why didn’t we round up that way, I’d like to know? This isn’t Utah, Paul. You can’t have both.”
 
Paul meant for him to lie low, then. He was also in a hurry to get the girls away. Evidently the danger lay here. There was a tightening of the firm mouth and an ominous contraction of the pupils of the eyes. He stirred the fire, then jammed a huge, knotted stick into the sheet iron stove. It seemed as if everybody had sheet iron stoves in this country. The log caught with a pleasant roar as the draught sent flames leaping up the chimney. But Paul made no movement to go. Then he, Gordon, had not understood his friend. Maybe the menace was not here, but outside. If so, he must contrive to keep his guests interested here. He would leave the lead to Paul. Paul knew. He went back to his living-room and returned, bringing two heavy buggy robes.
 
“You will find my bachelor way of living very primitive,” he said, with his engaging smile. He arranged the robes over two of the chairs and pushed them close up to the stove. “I haven’t an easy chair in the house—prove it by Paul, here. Haven’t time to rock, and can’t afford to run the risk of cultivating slothful habits. Take these, do,” he urged, “and remove your coats.”
 
“Thank you—you are very kind,” said Louise. “No, I won’t take off my jacket,” a spot of color staining her cheek when she thought of her gay kimono. Involuntarily, she felt of her throat to make sure the muffler had not blown awry. “We shall be going soon, shan’t we, Mr. Langford? If Mr. Gordon is in any danger, you must stay with him and let us go alone. It is not far.”
 
“Surely,” said Mary, with a big sinking of the heart, but meaning what she said.
 
“Not at all,” said Gordon, decidedly. “It’s just his womanish way of bossing me. I’ll rebel some day. Just wait! But before you go, I’ll make tea. You must have gotten chilled through.”
 
He would keep them here a while and then let them go—with Langford. The thought made him feel cheap and cowardly and sneaking. Far rather would he step out boldly and take his chances. But if there was to be any shooting, it must be where Louise,—and Mary, too—was not. He believed Paul, in his zeal, had exaggerated evil omens, but there was Louise in his bachelor rooms—where he had never thought to see her; there with her cheeks flushed with the proximity to the stove—his stove—her fair hair windblown. No breath of evil thing must assail her that night—that night,............