Gerald was enveloped in an atmosphere of tobacco smoke which nearly choked his landlady when she entered the room.

A telegram had come for him, and it being, as she explained, "that dratted gal's night out," she had ascended the stairs with the message herself.

Gerald was thick in smoke, because he had an idea that his brain liked it; he thought better with a pipe in his mouth.

And he was as full of thought just then as a pomegranate is of pips.

He took the telegram, opened it, and raised his eyebrows at the contents.

"What's the meaning of it?" he muttered. "What can have happened since the morning? What more can he know?"

He was in no way suspicious that it was part of a trap.

He did not credit Loide with any revengeful feeling, because he had been dealt with leniently—let fly when his wings should have been clipped.

Was it possible that there was such a thing as gratitude in that tough old legal breast? He half smiled as he wholly doubted it.

And yet—well, he would go down and see what it was. Wimbledon was not far—he could soon get there and back.

He turned down his lamp, and, putting on his coat and hat, went out, took train to, and reached Wimbledon.

He had some difficulty in finding his way through the ill-lit streets, but at last he reached The Elms.

Through the slats of the Venetian blinds he saw the house well lighted. There was nothing dark or mysterious about it.

A faint suspicion which had been born en route subsided.

Clever Loide had foreseen and disarmed such suspicion by means of his pound of candles, lighted and distributed on the floors of the front rooms.

Gerald opened the gate and walked up the steps to the door. He knocked.

Presently he heard footsteps, and then a voice—a voice he recognized as the lawyer's—saying:

"That is all right, Mary; don't bother to open the door. I will. I know who it is—a gentleman I am expecting. Just put some coals on the dining-room fire, will you?"

Then there was a rattling of the lock, and the hall door swung open. The lawyer stood there.

"Come in," he said. "Excuse the condition of the hall; the white washers are at work."

Gerald entered, and the lawyer closed the door behind him.

"Straight on," he said. "My room is at the end of the passage, the door facing you."

Gerald walked on. Then suddenly the floor gave way beneath him.

With a cry he stretched out his hands, and gripped the edge of what he perceived to be a trap, saving himself from falling thereby. The lawyer saw this, and endeavored with his foot on Gerald's shoulder to thrust him down.

In turn Gerald released one hand, and made a grab at the lawyer's leg. Just in time Loide withdrew his limb, and Gerald replaced his hand on the edge of the opening, striving to draw himself up.

There was only one thing to be done, and the lawyer did it. He deliberately placed his feet, one on the fingers of each of the hands gripping the wood.

With a cry of pain Gerald released his hold, and fell to the feather bed below.

The lawyer knelt on the edge of the hole, and, throwing the rays of his lantern down, inquired:

"All right? You aren't hurt, are you?"

"What's the meaning of this devil's trick? Is this the gratitude you spoke of?"

"A little bit of it—just a little bit of it. I'm sorry; really, truly sorry to put you in such a position, but business, you know, business must be attended to."

"I've walked into your trap."

"Just nicely and comfortably."

"Like a fool."

"No, no, don't say that," said the lawyer soothingly. "You couldn't possibly foresee."

"What does it mean? What's your object? How long do you propose to keep me here?"

"Depends entirely on yourself."

"How?"

"Let me handle those nineteen thousand pound notes, and you shall have your liberty within twenty four hours."

"And if I don't do that?"

The grim smile on the lawyer's face seemed to answer him.

"Supposing I cannot?"

Once more the lawyer smiled. He stroked his chin and said quietly:

"You are not a fool. I don't think I am. Let's play this game, then, like men. You are here in my power. You've got to stop here till I handle those notes. I can't afford to let that time be a long one, so I must hurry things on a bit."

"You mean to torture me?"

"That's as you may choose to put it. You must remember that the torture will cease the moment you care to let it. You've got the check string in your hand."

"What do you intend doing?"

"Nothing, I hope, because I think you will see the game is mine, and hand over the pool."

"You think I have the notes on me?"

"No, I don't, or I should have adopted other means—rendered you unconscious while I despoiled you of them, and then perhaps popped you where you are for some hours while I cashed the notes and cleared out."

"What is it you want me to do, then?"

"Well, you made me sit down and write a note once, didn't you? I have a stylographic pen here, paper, and an envelope."

"Yes."

"I want you to write a letter, authorizing the giving up to the bearer of it the packet containing the notes."

"A letter—to whom?"

The lawyer laughed as he answered:

"To the custodian of them, of course."

"And if I can't—if I don't do that?"

"Then, my friend, you'll gain knowledge. You will know what it is to be hungry and thirsty. I don't know that the information will be of much service to you in the police force, but for all it's worth, it will be yours."

"You will starve me!"

"I shall keep you without bite or sup till you give me what I want, if it's for a day or a week, or—or as long as you can live. If you are obstinate enough, if ultimately your skeleton is found here—for I may tell you that rats abound in the cellar, and they are reputed to be excellent bone pickers—the fault will be yours, wholly yours, not mine."

There was silence for a few moments.

Gerald was in a cold sweat of fear and horror. He knew the lawyer well enough to know that an appeal to his mercy would be wasted.

If he told the truth—that he did not know where the notes were—he would not be believed. If he did convince the lawyer, then what might happen?

At the fellow's mercy he might be killed, just as the man on the boat had been. Human life, he knew, was no sacred thing to the man who held him prisoner.

To lie or to tell the truth—which should he do?

"How do you shape?" presently inquired the lawyer. "Will you make yourself as comfortable on those beds as you can for the night without bedclothes, and with rodent company, or will you give me the letter I ask for now?"

"I can't give it."

"Very well," said the lawyer, pretending to smile genially, although he was sick at heart at the answer. "Perhaps a night's reflection will make you change your mind;" he drew up the flap as he spoke.

"Good-night."

"God! Are you going to leave me here in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I am sleeping in the house, and if the loneliness—but you will have plenty of company—if you should change your mind in the night, call out. I shall hear you, and bring a light."

"If I scream for help the neighbors——"

"Will not hear you. Grip that fact, and it will be a breath saver. This house stands off the road in its own grounds. There is not a living being within earshot."

"Leave me a light, man—it's inhuman."

"I am sorry you think that. However, it's your own fault, you know. Give me the letter I want, and I'll lower this lamp to you, and before this time to-morrow night you shall be as free as air."

He waited a minute, holding the flap in his hand. No answer.

"I am sorry you don't see your way to it. You don't mind my shutting this flap, do you? You'll get plenty of ventilation from the barred window. By the by, don't waste strength trying the bars. I tried them before you dropped down, and you can take my word that they are firm enough; while as to the door, it's as solid a piece of oak as was ever carpentered. Accept my assurance that you are as secure as it is possible to make you, will you? Good-night."

He put one of the pieces of lath across a corner of the opening as he spoke, and rested the flap on that.

The square border of light, which those eager eyes in the cellar looked up to, the light of the lamp through the cracks, gradually grew fainter and fainter—the lantern had been lifted.

The light faded, then all was darkness. The prisoner was alone.