I can't recall falling to sleep in the great chair, but now, with a sudden, painful start, I awoke to realize that it was broad daylight--Friday, the twenty-second of June. My head was aching frightfully, and my arms and legs seemed singularly cramped and constricted. Then I came face to face with the ugly fact that I was bound fast in my chair by stout cords that secured my shoulders, wrists, and ankles; I could move my head a trifle to one side or the other and that was all. John Thaneford sat opposite me, smoking a cigarette and looking as though he had remained entirely unaffected by the amount of liquor he had consumed. Seeing that I was awake he rose, came over to where I sat, and examined carefully the various ligatures that constrained my movements. Not a word was uttered on either side, and indeed there was no need for any speech between us. Doubtless I should be informed in due time of whatever fate might be in store for me; and, for the present, I could only wait with what show of patience it were possible to muster. A discreet knock sounded on the closed door leading to the corridor. Thaneford snapped back the locking-bolt and stepped across the threshold; I realized that Effingham was standing there, but the leather screen prevented my seeing him, and of course it hid, in turn, my mortifying predicament. Now I might have called out, shouted for help, raised the very roof in indignant protest at the humiliation to which I had been subjected. And yet I did none of these obvious things, and I think John Thaneford was shrewd enough to know that my tongue would be held out of very shame; otherwise, he would have taken the precaution to slip a gag into my mouth. I heard Thaneford tell Effingham, speaking of course in my name, to bring a large pot of black coffee and a plate of crackers. "The unsalted kind," he added, as though actuated by an afterthought whose significance became instantly clear to my own mind. "Or better yet," he continued, "some of those big, round biscuits that they call 'pilot bread.' No, Mr. Hildebrand doesn't care for any tea this morning--what's that! a telegram? Then why the devil didn't you say so! Give it here, and mind you hurry up that coffee--hot and black, and strong as sheol." The door swung to, and I could hear Effingham's carpet slippers padding softly away. Too late now, I regretted that I had not given the alarm. Even if Thaneford had used violent means to silence Effingham my voice would have rung all through the lower part of the house, prompting some sort of inquiry and a probable rescue. But that chance was gone. Thaneford returned to my immediate vicinity, the buff telegram envelope in his hand. I could see that it was addressed to me, but he broke the seal without even the pretense of hesitation, and glanced over the message. His lips curled into a genial sneer (if one can imagine such a combination); then he deliberately held up the sheet for me to read.