Risk came quickly behind him. “We’re going to show you a few pictures, Corrie,” he said pleasantly, “and afterwards we shall be glad to hear how they strike you. Meantime I’m going to gag you—keep still, it won’t hurt.” At the end of ten minutes one of the men murmured, “All ready, sir,” to which Risk replied, “Wait till I give the word,” and stationed himself where he could watch every movement on Corrie’s part. The lamp was put out, but through the blinded windows a little moonlight filtered, giving a ghostly touch to the man in the chair. “Number one,” said Risk softly. The screen was illuminated. Upon it appeared a face, that of the late Hugh Carstairs. A glimpse and it was gone. Corrie gave a jerk. “Two,” muttered Risk, and Kitty Carstairs smiled and disappeared. “Three.” A man’s visage with an uncertain grin—Symington. Then, for an instant, the screen held a certificate for 500 shares in the Zenith Gold Mines. Corrie sat as if frozen, but at the next he quivered, for he beheld a portion of a letter which he knew was in his safe. “Six.” Behold! Sam, the postman, holding a copy of the _Western Weekly_ in one hand and staring at a letter in the other. Again Corrie gave a jerk. “Seven.” A five-pound note of the National Bank of Scotland. “Eight.” A rear view of Corrie’s cottage, a ladder against the ivy, and a man of Corrie’s build reaching into an open window. And then there was a pause. “Now,” said Risk, “we are going to have a little cinema entertainment, a scene from a drama of real life which I believe would interest the public, not to mention the police.” As he spoke the door from the dwelling-house was opened a few inches, silently, unobserved. “Go ahead,” said Risk. What followed was, as the perpetrator would have been first to admit, a piece of barefaced “fake.” Yet its one glaring divergence from fact and its several minor discrepancies could not neutralize the main dire truth of the story. As a film it had been a costly and difficult piece of work; as a spectacle it would have impressed any audience. The only question Risk asked himself now was: Would it attain the single object to which it had been devoted?