"Jem Haworth," he was answered. "Jem Haworth, as it wur made fur."
He began to struggle with all his strength. He cried out aloud and sprang up and broke loose and fought with the force of madness.
"You shall pay for it," he shrieked, and three to one as they were, he held them for a moment at bay.
"Gi' him th' knob-stick!" cried one. "At him wi' it!"
It was Reddy who aimed the blow at him,—a blow that would have laid him a dead man among them,—but it never fell, for he sprang forward with a mighty effort and struck the bludgeon upward, and as it fell with a crash at the opposite side of the room, they heard, even above the tumult of their struggle, a rush of heavy feet, a voice every man among them knew, and the sound they most dreaded—the sharp report of a pistol.
"It's Haworth!" they shouted. "Haworth!" And they made a dash at the door in a body, stumbling over one another, striking and cursing, and the scoundrel who first got through and away was counted a lucky man.
Murdoch took a step forward and fell—so close to the model that his helpless hand touched it as it lay.
It was not long before he returned to consciousness. His sudden loss of strength had only been a sort of climax body and mind had reached together. When he opened his eyes again, his first thought was a wonder at himself and a vague effort to comprehend his weakness. He looked up at Haworth, who bent over him.
"Lie still a bit, lad," he heard him say. "Lie and rest thee."
He no sooner heard his voice than he forgot his weak
