Her finger was on the bell when she heard a sound in the passage. The bolt was drawn back, and Symington’s voice said: “Get to your bed. I don’t want to see you again to-night.” A rough voice answered: “Right you are, sir. Good night.” Then Symington entered. He had been keeping himself firmly in hand all day; he had an exhausted look, and was rather pale. Without preface he exclaimed in hurt tones: “Kitty, what’s wrong with the food?” “Is your other prisoner getting the same?” she asked quietly, approaching the table. His laugh was lost in a crash. Kitty had lifted the tray and flung it at his feet. “There’s your rubbish!” she panted, catching hold of a chair-back. “You can’t beat me!” “By God!” he exclaimed furious, then restrained himself. “You can’t keep it up, Kitty, my dear. One day of real hunger is nothing to brag about. Wait till you see my other prisoner. I’m going to take you there now. He has had three days of it—and no water since yesterday. He’ll advise you not to be foolish.” “You beast!” He winced, but merely said, “Come!” She did not hesitate even when he took hold of her arm. “You are a great fool,” she said. “Can’t you understand that any decent man would advise me to commit suicide rather than marry you?” “Be silent!” His fingers crushed her flesh. He led her along a passage lit by electricity. A couple of windows, she noticed, were boarded over with metal-lined wood. They passed a couple of doors similarly strengthened and with stout bolts apparently new. They turned a corner and stopped. The topmost third of the door in front of them had been cut away, and the opening fitted with slim upright steel bars. “Look in,” said Symington. Kitty saw a chamber which might have served as a storeroom in the past. The shelving had been removed; the walls were torn and filthy. A table, a chair, and an ancient sofa constituted the furnishings. A single light hung from the ceiling. On the sofa lay a young man, the state of whose raiment suggested a very long journey without a dressing-case. His face was grey and pinched; his hands made vague, nervous movements. “Oh, Colin!” she cried. His eyes opened, peeringly; he struggled into a sitting posture, and pressed a hand to his brow, “Why, it’s Kitty!” he said, with a laugh that died abruptly. “I’d forgotten,” he muttered. A short pause, then—“So we’re both prisoners. But he won’t starve you, Kitty. Well, I hope our jailer is enjoying himself while it lasts. Oh, you’re there, Symington! Kitty, has he told you about the thrashing I gave him the other night?” Symington turned away with a badly suppressed snarl. “Oh, did you, Colin? Thank you, thank you! But, Colin, what am I to do? He’s starving you, and says he’ll give you nothing till I promise to marry him.” “Really! What a gentleman he is! Of course you’ll marry him!” “Come!” said Symington roughly. Kitty held on to the bars. “Colin, I’m starving myself—”