Neale was instantly awake and on the alert. He sprang to his feet, shivering a little in spite of the rugs which he had wrapped about him before settling down. A slight current of cold air struck him as he rose—looking in the direction from which it seemed to come, he saw that one of the circular windows in the high wall above him was open, and that a fresh north-east wind was blowing the curtain aside. The laboratory, hot and close enough when he had entered it the previous evening, was now cool; the morning breeze freshened and sharpened his wits. He pulled out his watch, which he had been careful to wind up before lying down. Seven o'clock!—in spite of his imprisonment and his unusual couch, he had slept to his accustomed hour of waking.

Knowing that Joseph Chestermarke might walk in upon him at any moment, Neale kept himself on the look out, in readiness to adopt a determined attitude whenever he was discovered. By that time he had come to the conclusion that whether force would be necessary or not in any meeting with Joseph, it would be no unwise thing to let that worthy see at once that he had to deal with an armed man. He accordingly saw to it that his revolver, already loaded, was easily get-at-able, and the flap of his hip-pocket unbuttoned: under the circumstances, he was not going to be slow in producing that revolver in suggestive, if not precisely menacing fashion. This done, he opened his box of chocolate, calculated its resources, and ate a modest quantity. And while he ate, he looked about him. In the morning light everything in his surroundings showed clearly that his cursory inspection of the night before had been productive of definite conclusions. There was no doubt whatever of the character of the mysterious door set so solidly and closely in its framework in the blank wall: the door of the strong room at Chestermarke's Bank was not more suggestive of security.

He went over to the outer door when he had eaten his chocolate, and examined that at his leisure. That, in lesser degree, was set into the wall as strongly as the inner one. He saw no means of opening it from the inside: it was evidently secured by a patent mechanical lock of which Joseph Chestermarke presumably carried the one key. He turned from it to look more closely at a shelf of books and papers which projected from the wall above the table. Papers and books were all of a scientific nature, most of them relating to experimental chemistry, some to mechanics. He noticed that there were several books on poisons; his glance fell from those books to various bottles and phials on the table, fashioned of dark-coloured glass and three-cornered in shape, which he supposed to contain poisonous solutions. So Joseph dabbled in toxicology, did he? thought Neale—in that case, perhaps, there was something in the theory which had been gaining ground during the last twenty-four hours—that Hollis had been poisoned first and thrown into the old lead-mine later on. And—what of the somebody, Horbury or whoever it was, that lay behind that grim-looking door? Neale had never heard a sound during the time which had elapsed before he dropped asleep, never a faintest rustle since he had been awake again. Was it possible that a dead man lay there—murdered?

A cheerful chirping and twittering in the space behind him caused him to turn sharply away from the books and bottles. Then he saw that he was no longer alone. Half a score sparrows, busy, bustling little bodies, had come in by the open window, and were strutting about amongst the grey ashes in front of the furnace.

Neale's glance suddenly fell on the loaf of bread, close at hand on the edge of the table, and on the knife which lay by it. Mechanically, without any other idea than that of feeding the sparrows and diverting himself by watching their antics, he picked up the knife, quietly cut off a half-slice of the loaf, and, crumbling it in his fingers, threw the crumbs on the floor. For a minute or two he watched his visitors fighting over this generous dole; then he turned to the shelf again, to take down a book, the title of which had attracted him. Neale was an enthusiastic member of the Territorial Force, and had already gained his sergeant's stripes in the local battalion; he was accordingly deeply interested in all military matters—this book certainly related to those matters, though in a way with which he was happily as yet unfamiliar. For its title was "On the Use of High Explosive in Modern Warfare," and though Neale was no great reader, he was well enough versed in current affairs to know the name of the author, a foreign scientist of world-wide reputation.

He opened the book as he stood there, and was soon absorbed in the preface; so absorbed indeed, that it was some little time before he became aware that the cheerful twittering behind him had ceased. It had made a welcome diversion, that innocent chirping of the little brown birds, and when it ceased, he missed it. He turned suddenly—and dropped the book.

Seven or eight of the sparrows were already lying on the floor motionless. Some lay on their sides, some on their backs; all looked as if they were already dead. Two were still on their feet; at any other time Neale would have laughed to see the way in which they staggered about, for all the world as if they were drunk. And as he watched one collapsed; the other, after an ineffective effort to spread its wings, rolled to one side and dropped helplessly. And Neale made another turn—to stare at the loaf of bread and to wonder what devilry lay in it. Poison? Of course it was poison! And—what of this man in that jealously guarded room, behind that steel door? Had he also eaten of the loaf?

He turned to the sparrows again at last, stood staring at them as if they fascinated him, and eventually went over to the foot of the furnace and picked one up. Then he found, with something of a shock, that the small thing was not dead. The little body was warm with life; he felt the steady, regular beating of the tiny heart. He laid the bird down gently, and picked up its companions, one by one, examining each. And each was warm, and the heart of each was beating. The sparrows were not dead—but they were drugged—and they were very fast asleep.

Neale now began to develop theories. If a mere tiny crumb of that loaf could put a sparrow, a remarkably vigorous and physically strong little bird—to sleep within a minute or two, what effect would, say, a good thick slice of it produce upon a human being? Anyway, the probability was that the captive in that room was lying in a heavily drugged condition, and that that was the reason of his silence. He would wake—and surely some sound, however faint, would come. He himself would wait—listening. The morning wore on—he waited, watched, listened. None came—nothing had happened. He ate more of his chocolate. He read the book on explosives. It interested him deeply—so deeply that in spite of his anxiety, his hunger, his uncertainty as to what might happen, sooner or later, he became absorbed in it. And once more he was called from its pages by the sparrows.

The sparrows were coming to life. After lying stupefied for some four or five hours they were showing signs of animation. One by one they were moving, staggering to their feet, beginning to chirp. And as he watched them, first one and then the other got the use of its wings; and, finally, with one consent, they flew off to the open window—to disappear.

Thereafter, Neale listened more keenly than ever for any sound from that mysterious room. But no sound came. The afternoon passed wearily away; the light began to fail, and at last he had to confess to himself that the waiting, the being always on the alert, the enforced seclusion and detention, the desire for proper food and drink—especially the latter—was becoming too much for him, and that his nerves were beginning to suffer. Was Joseph Chestermarke never coming? Had he gone off somewhere?—possibly leaving a dead man behind, whose body was only a few yards away. There was no spark of comfort visible save one. Old Rob Walford would be home late that night from Wymington—sooner or later he would hear of Neale's disappearance and he would sharpen his naturally acute wits and come to the right conclusion. Yet—that might be as far off as tomorrow.

As the darkness came, Neale, now getting desperate for want of food, was suddenly startled by two sounds which, coming abruptly at almost the same time, made him literally jump. One—the first—was a queer thump, thump, thump, which seemed to be both close at hand and yet a thousand miles away. The second was Joseph Chestermarke's voice in the garden outside—heard clearly through the open window. He was bidding somebody to tell a cab-driver to wait for him at the foot of the bridge. The next minute, Neale heard a key plunged into the outer door—before it turned, he, following out a scheme which he had decided on during his long watch, had leaped behind the screen that stood near the furnace. Ere the door could open, he was safely hidden—and in that second he heard the thumping repeated and knew that it came from the inner room.

The electric light blazed up as Joseph Chestermarke strode in. He put the door to behind him without quite closing it, and walked into the middle of the laboratory, feeling in his waistcoat pocket for something as he advanced. And Neale, peering at him through the high screen, felt afraid of him for the first time in his life. For the junior partner had shaved off his beard and moustache, and the face which was thus clearly revealed, and on which the bright light shone vividly, was one of such mean and malevolent cruelty that the watcher felt himself turn sick with dread.

Joseph went straight to the door in the far wall, unlocked it with a twist of the key which he had brought from his pocket, and walked in. The click of an electric light switch followed, and Neale stared hard and nervously into the hitherto hidden room. But he saw nothing but Joseph Chestermarke, standing, hands planted on his sides, staring at something hidden by the door. Next instant Joseph spoke—menacingly, sneeringly.

"So you're round again after one of your long sleeps, are you?" he said. "That's lucky! Now then, have you come to your senses?"

Neale thought his heart would burst as he waited for the unseen man's voice. But before he heard any voice he heard something which turned his blood cold with horror—the clanking, plain, unmistakable, of a chain! Whoever was in there was chained!—chained like a dog. And following on that metallic sound came a weary moan.

"Come on, now!" said Joseph. "None of that! Are you going to sign that paper? Speak, now!"

It seemed to Neale an age before an answer came. But it came at last—and in Horbury's voice. But what a changed voice! Thin, weak, weary—the voice of a man slowly being done to death.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" it asked. "How long——"

"Sign that paper on the table there, and you'll be out of this within twenty-four hours," replied Joseph. "And—listen, you!—you'll have good food—and wine—wine!—within ten minutes. Come on, now!"

Further silence was followed by another moan, and at the sound of that, Neale, whose teeth had been clenched firmly for the last minute or two, slipped his hand round to the pocket in which the revolver lay.

"Don't be a damned fool!" said Joseph. "Sign and have done with it! There's the pen—sign! You could have signed any time the last week and been free. Get it done—damn you, I tell you, get it done! It's your last chance. I'm off tonight. If I leave you here, it's in your grave. Nobody'll ever come near this place for weeks—you'll be dead—starved to death, mind!—long before that. Do you hear me? Come on, now!—sign!"

Neale half drew the revolver from his pocket. But, as he was about to step from behind the screen, a sudden step sounded on the gravel outside the outer door, and he shrank back, watching. The door opened—was thrown back with some violence—and at the same instant Joseph darted from the inner room, livid with anger, to confront Gabriel Chestermarke.

That the younger man had not expected to encounter the elder was instantly evident to Neale. Joseph drew back, step by step, watching his uncle, until his back was against the door through which he had just rushed. His hand went out behind him and pulled the door to, heavily. And as it closed he spoke—and Neale knew that there was fear in his voice.

"What—what—is it?" he got out. "When did you come in here? Why——" Gabriel Chestermarke had come to a halt in the middle of the floor, and he was standing very still. His face was paler than ever, and his eyes burned in their deep-set sockets like live coals. And suddenly he lifted a forefinger and pointed it straight at his nephew.

"Thief!" he said, with a quietness which was startlingly impressive to the excited spectator. "Thief! Thief and liar—and murderer, for aught I know! But you are found out. Scoundrel!—you stole those securities! You stole those jewels! Don't trifle—don't attempt to dispute! I know! You got the jewels last Saturday night—you took those securities at the same time. You may have murdered that man Hollis for anything I know to the contrary—probably you did. But—no fencing with me! Now speak! Where are the jewels? Where are those securities? And—where is Horbury! Answer!—without lying. You devil!—I tell you I know—know! I have seen Mrs. Carswell!"

Gabriel had moved a little as he went on speaking—moved nearer to his nephew, still pointing the incriminating and accusing finger at him. And Joseph had moved, too—backward. He was watching his uncle with a queer expression. Neale saw the tip of his tongue emerge from his lips, as if the lips had become dry, and he wanted to moisten them. And suddenly his face changed, and Neale, closely watching him, saw his hand go quickly to his breast pocket, and caught the gleam of a revolver....

Neale was a cricketer—of reputation and experience. On a felt-covered stand close by him lay a couple of heavy spherical objects, fashioned of some shining-surfaced metal and about the size of a cricket ball, which he had previously noticed and handled in looking round. He snatched one of them up now, and flung it hard and straight at Joseph Chestermarke, intending to stun him. But for once in a way he missed his mark; the missile crashed against the wall behind. And then came a great flash, and the roar of all the world going to pieces, and a mighty lifting and upheaving—and he saw and felt and knew no more.