Then came Updyke himself, and along with him five additional operatives, fierce of eye, solemn, and noiseless, as they arranged their chairs in semicircle formation, the better to confront the would-be kidnapper. Two shorthand men took seats, one on either side of the witness--then the steel door, to the great concrete "sweat room," was closed with a bang--and locked against further admissions. All this had been done within three minutes, and with studied intent, that the witness should not have the advantage of an unnecessary moment of respite. The Barbour matter was Updyke's own case and he went about it "hammer and tongs." To the stenographers he said-- "Every word must be taken down verbatim--see that your notes compare, rigidly alike, at the close of the confession." Then to Parkins he bawled-- "Sit up like a man and tell the truth! Don't try to lie, for we know every side of the case and you will only serve yourself a bad turn if you try any smart-aleck subterfuge. The more you tell of your deviltry the fewer the witnesses that will be brought in to testify against you. It's up to you, whether or not you gain credence with those who confront you--all sworn officers of the law--who have no prejudices to start with, but will give you all that is coming to you should you lie in an attempt to save yourself. For once in your life it will pay you to be honest! Talk out loud so every one present can hear you plainly, or you will get a bucket of ice water in your face! No foolishness--we will now begin--sit up straight and don't look annoyed. You are the star actor in this drama." To Martin Leroy, one of the stenographers, a public notary, he winked. Then said--"Swear this man to tell the truth!"--and turning toward the much-perturbed Parkins he shouted--"Stand up and raise your right hand!" The notary knew full well that such an oath had no legal force--but it was part of the sweating process. Weak from mental anxiety, Parkins struggled to his feet. When he had repeated the last words of the oath--"so help me God"--he fell back into his chair exhausted. All bravado had left him. "Sit up straight, and answer the questions that are put to you," commanded Updyke, whose deep voice and ominous frown bore down upon the wilting degenerate until he squirmed in his chair. "Stop that fidgeting, and make up your mind that the truth will serve, but the lie will condemn!" he shouted. "Now sir"--began the man whose iron blood coursed through veins of corresponding vigor--"state your full name, your age, place of birth, residence, and avocation." "I was born in New York City--and, er----" "Speak up!" shouted the inquisitor. "A brave kidnapper would never cringe like a starving puppy." "I am thirty-five years old, and I was born----" "Here in New York--we managed to get that. Go on with the rest," said Updyke, gruffly, well knowing the advantage of getting in a quick first blow.