“One of your hired assassins, eh, Herr Doktor?” observed Desmond. “I believe you will find it safer in this country to continue to commit murder by proxy . . . at any rate for a time!” A little flush of anger crept into the cripple’s black-tufted cheeks. “You’re hardly in a position to be sarcastic at my expense!” he said. Desmond shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve made a bad blunder, Herr Doktor,” he said. “I greatly fear that by kidnapping and murdering me you’re going to bring a hornet’s nest about your ears!” “That may be!” returned Clubfoot grimly. “It is unfortunate that you will not be there to see it!” While they were talking, Desmond had stolen furtive glances about the room. Furnished unpretentiously enough, it had the look of a dining-room; but the fumed oak table had been pushed back against the wall and the chairs that went with it aligned in a row on either side of the apartment. The obvious newness of the furniture and the cheap and garish carpet suggested a furnished house or lodgings. The only thing in the room that had any pretence to good taste was a handsome Jacobean oak press with perfectly plain panelled doors that stood against the wall behind Clubfoot’s chair. The house was as silent as the grave. Strain his ear as he would, Desmond could detect no sound, not even of the traffic of the London streets, other than the ticking of a cheap clock on the mantelpiece which showed the time to be five minutes to eleven. Now Clubfoot noticed the listening look on the young man’s face. “Don’t buoy yourself up with false hopes, Okewood!” said he. “My retreat is truly rural. One never hears a sound here after dark, nor, on the other hand, does any noise ever penetrate beyond these walls. I’ve tested it, and I know! When that poor Mr. Törnedahl had a whiskey-and-soda with me the other afternoon, I was glad to find that, despite the proverb, _these_ walls have no ears. With deplorable carelessness I had entirely forgotten that the victims of strychnine poisoning emit the most distressing screams in their convulsions. Heinrich, who is less experienced than I am, was quite upset. Weren’t you, Heinrich? You were quite right, mein Junge, I should have used cyanide of potassium. As for you, Okewood,” he added in a sudden and surprising access of fury, “I’m going to hang you! As an example to other spies! There’s a nice quiet death for you! Heinrich, will you see to it?” The young man with the scarred face went out noiselessly. Desmond’s eyes were fixed on the clock. The hands were creeping past the hour of eleven. “At least,” he said, “you’ll let the girl go free, Grundt?” Clubfoot laughed stridently. “And leave a Crown witness behind?” He lifted his head. “Heinrich!” he called. A trap in the ceiling had opened. Two ends of rope, one furnished with a stout noose, came dangling down. The young German’s face appeared in the opening. “Herr Doktor?” “Let Karl and Grossmann bring up the young lady to witness the execution!”