"Then get the furnace bar."

It was fetched; nerve-racking blows rained on the grille; puffing
servants applied it as a lever, as a battering-ram, as a club. The house
rang like a boiler factory.

"I can't stand any more of that!" shouted the young man. "Stop it!"

Sacharissa looked about her, hands closing both ears.

"Send them away," said the young man, wearily. "If I've got to stay here
I want a chance to think."

After she had dismissed the servants Sacharissa drew up a chair and
seated herself a few feet from the grille. She could see half the car and
half the man--plainer, now that she had come nearer.

He was a young and rather attractive looking fellow, cheek tied up in his
handkerchief, where the head of the hammer had knocked off the skin.

"Let me get some witch-hazel," said Sacharissa, rising.

"I want to write a telegram first," he said.

So she brought some blanks, passed them and a pencil down to him through
the grille, and reseated herself.