Symington cursed under his breath. “No good for to-night. Poor Kitty—it’s a pity, but I can’t help it. Well, to-morrow night ought to settle it, and if not, I can wait. . . . But I might have gone North to-night, lifted the stuff, and got back here under twenty-four hours. Why the blazes didn’t I think of that?” His eyes roved as if in search of an answer, and lighted on the decanter. He glowered at it, and a flush, almost purple, overran his countenance. “Damn you,” he suddenly shouted, “it was you that kept me!” And, snatching it from the table, he hurled it across the room so that it burst into fragments against the wall. There was a breathless pause till he asked in a frightened whisper, “What the devil made me do that . . . made me do that?” He went to bed without finishing the drink in the tumbler. CHAPTER XXV KITTY was undoubtedly nearing the limit of human endurance. Threats and offers of bribes had alike failed to move the red-faced woman; not one out of a hundred questions had she answered save by the formula, “I’m sure I couldn’t say, Miss,” or, “You’ll have to ask himself about that.” It was the fourth night of her incarceration, the third since Symington’s visit. At first she had demanded his presence; later she had implored. The reply was always the same: “Maybe soon; but you must have patience, Miss.” Less than an hour ago she had heard it, and now the quaint little clock on the wall, which she had sometimes loved for its “company,” and sometimes wanted to smash for its heartlessness, tinkled nine. Was another day going to pass without relief, another night of awful uncertainty approaching? She had given up trying to persuade herself that her captor was not vile enough to carry out his menace against Colin—for Colin, she could not doubt, was the second prisoner. Symington, asserted Despair, was surely vile enough for the dirtiest work, since he could so torture the mind of a helpless girl. And yet Kitty Carstairs was not at the very end of her wits. One thing she had in her power to do. She could starve herself! Yesterday she had scarcely touched food; to-day she had not broken her fast. The tempting meals had gone out of the room as they had been brought in. There on the table, with its mocking carnations, was a silver tray bearing sundry delicacies, exquisitely served, which the woman had left on her last visit for the night. It taxed the girl’s powers of resistance, but her spirit conquered her flesh. “God, hear me,” she whispered; “let me not eat till I am convinced that Colin has had food.” She was feeling weak and somewhat faint, but the sickly headache had abated, and her mind was very clear. “I will try once more,” she told herself. “I will pretend to be ill, and that may bring him. Then I will show him I am determined to starve. I shouldn’t be much use to him dead!”