"There are limits—" he began.
A step sounded beside Helen. Breathing rapidly, she turned and saw John Taylor standing there. She did not see the glare he gave Phil Rowe, did not detect the bewilderment in Rowe's face. Her heart paused in its wild measure. This was the man who had betrayed her, who had done more, even, than menace her forest. He belonged with these others—he, whose lips had been on hers!
Then he spoke.
"There are, Phil; you're right. There are limits to endurance. You've overstepped them."
His manner was quite easy, almost tolerant.
"So you—" Rowe began again.
"You will keep still now." John interrupted. "You will keep still," voice rising, "or I'll thrash you until you grovel on your knees before Miss Foraker!"
Rowe drew back. A choking sound came from his throat and he shook his head.
"If you know what's best for you, you'll keep out of this!" he cried, beside himself. "You've done enough now to damn you forever in the old man's eyes! You've blocked me for the last time, Taylor!"
John's hand was on his shoulder, gripping into the flesh. Rowe winced and twisted to be away from that grip, away from the blazing eyes.
He struck a quick blow, which glanced from John's cheek bone and then cried aloud as he was lifted from his feet and slammed against the wall. He felt fierce breath in his face as he struggled and cursed, felt hard fingers at his throat, felt a fist like a knot of wood bash into one eye, felt his lips burst like grapes at another blow and
