“No, no! For God’s sake, Kitty—” Colin rose, but staggered. “I’ll pull through. And don’t you be afraid. It’s only for a little longer,” he said, and got to the door. “Let me touch your hand, Kitty, and I’ll pull through.” “Let go!” Symington said savagely, “or—” “Forgive me, I’ve kissed your hand, Kitty dear,” said Colin in a weak, husky voice. Beside himself, Symington tore her from the door inside which Colin had fallen. As he left her in her own room he said— “You’ll feel and think differently to-morrow. I shan’t see you till then. Going now to Dunford. But before I leave I’ll supply our friend with plenty of water—well salted.” CHAPTER XXVI THE passage of a motor-car through Dunford in the night-time was too common a happening to disturb sleepers or excite the curiosity of a wakeful person. To-night John Corrie was wakeful, as he so often was till long after midnight, and it is probable that he was not aware of the big car’s approach till it stopped at his own door. Being a dealer in motor-spirit, he at once perceived a reason for the stoppage. More than once in the last few years he had been called in similar wise to the receipt of custom, though never quite so late as this. On the last occasion he had, without opening the door, curtly refused supplies. Nowadays, however, he could not afford to turn money away at any hour of the twenty-four. So in shirt, trousers, and slippers he was into the shop almost as soon as the expected knock fell. Still, it was better to make certain before opening. “What do ye want?” he called, hand on key. “Petrol.” He opened . . . and next moment his arms were behind him while steel clicked on his wrists. “A single sound by way of alarm, John Corrie,” said a quiet, cold voice, “and you’re a ruined man. We are not after your money, but we’re going to have the whole precious truth out of you.” The speaker, as the half-fainting Corrie perceived in the light of a portable lamp, which some one had placed on the counter, was accompanied by three men, two of them in the garb of mechanics. The third he recognized as the person recently inquiring about Kitty. “What do ye want wi’ me?” he whimpered. “Where is your sister?” asked Risk. “In her bed. She’s ill.” “Then we shall do nothing to disturb her, and you had better follow our example. West, find a chair, and put him on it—over at the door.” He indicated the exit to the dwelling-house. Near the opposite end of the shop, which was fairly spacious, the mechanics were already busy. On rubber-shod feet they made scarce a sound. Within the space of a few minutes they had rigged up a framework, about nine feet square, and stretched a white screen upon it. Risk unpacked the contents of a box of polished wood, while West kept guard on the prisoner. At last, with a show of courage, Corrie demanded: “What daft-like performance is this? A magic lantern—”