The house was wrapped in silence. Not a sound came to him from without. He tried to review the situation. His position was desperate. Clubfoot would not spare him. This time he was doomed beyond hope of escape. A train of odd incidents from his long battle of wits with the master spy came crowding into his aching head . . . Still drowsy from the drug, he must have dropped off to sleep, for when next he opened his eyes it was to find some one shaking his arm. A fair-haired youth stood beside the couch, his rather crafty face barred by a long white scar. Desmond recognized Heinrich, Clubfoot’s acolyte in many an exploit. On the table stood a tray decked for a meal. “Anything you want you can have,” said Heinrich, “as long as it doesn’t require cutting with a knife. I’ve brought you some minced chicken and a whiskey-and-soda . . .” “Where am I?” asked Desmond. “My instructions,” retorted the youth with military precision, “are to feed you. Nothing more. I shall return in half an hour for the tray . . .” “Can’t I have a wash?” demanded Desmond. The youth pointed to an oaken cabinet in the corner. “You will find all you require there!” he said. Then he left the room. Hot water stood ready in a brass jug. After he had washed and eaten, Desmond felt his strength returning. When Heinrich came to fetch the tray, he brought a cup of coffee and a box of cigarettes. “Quite a prison de luxe!” remarked Desmond brightly. “My orders are to make you comfortable!” was the non-committal reply. Each time the door opened, Desmond noticed that a light burnt in the corridor. He assumed, therefore, that it must be evening. Consequently he must have slept almost the round of the clock. The hours dragged interminably on. He paced up and down the room, smoking cigarettes, busy with his thoughts. What had become of Clubfoot? What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he come in and finish it? Slowly the numbing silence of the house, the absence of any indication of time, the artificial light, began to get on Desmond Okewood’s nerves. This restriction on his liberty was intolerable. He looked about for a bell. There was none. He went to the door—it was solid oak with no lock apparent on the inside—and began to hammer it with his fists and feet. He pounded until he was tired. No one came. He had fallen to striding up and down the room again when suddenly the door opened. Heinrich came in. “Dr. Grundt is asking for you. Will you come with me?” he said. “Gladly,” retorted Desmond. “I’m particularly anxious to have a word with the Herr Doktor!” “Don’t trouble to try to escape,” observed the young man blandly as he held the door for his prisoner. “Doors and windows are barred and the house is closely guarded. You’d only get hurt!” The warning was spoken sincerely and carried conviction. Desmond felt his heart sink.