"And if I resist?" The man whose pleasantry it had been to call himself Eustace Montmorency shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be a fool," he said tolerantly. "You know who you are dealing with and the kind of risks we run. If you call out or endanger us at a critical point we shall not hesitate to silence you effectively." The blind man knew that it was no idle threat. In spite of the cloak of humour and fantasy thrown over the proceedings, he was in the power of coolly desperate men. The window was curtained and shuttered against sight and sound, the door behind him locked. Possibly at that moment a revolver threatened him; certainly weapons lay within reach of both his keepers. "Tell me what to write," he asked, with capitulation in his voice. Dompierre twirled his mustachios in relieved approval. Madame laughed from her place on the couch and picked up a book, watching Montmorency over the cover of its pages. As for that gentleman, he masked his satisfaction by the practical business of placing on the table before Carrados the accessories of the letter. "Put into your own words the message that I outlined just now." "Perhaps to make it altogether natural I had better write on a page of the notebook that I always use," suggested Carrados. "Do you wish to make it natural?" demanded Montmorency, with latent suspicion. "If the miscarriage of your plan is to result in my head being knocked--yes, I do," was the reply. "Good!" chuckled Dompierre, and sought to avoid Mr Montmorency's cold glance by turning on the electric table-lamp for the blind man's benefit. Madame Dompierre laughed shrilly. "Thank you, Monsieur," said Carrados, "you have done quite right. What is light to you is warmth to me--heat, energy, inspiration. Now to business." He took out the pocket-book he had spoken of and leisurely proceeded to flatten it down upon the table before him. As his tranquil, pleasant eyes ranged the room meanwhile it was hard to believe that the shutters of an impenetrable darkness lay between them and the world. They rested for a moment on the two accomplices who stood beyond the table, picked out Madame Dompierre lolling on the sofa on his right, and measured the proportions of the long, narrow room. They seemed to note the positions of the window at the one end and the door almost at the other, and even to take into account the single pendent electric light which up till then had been the sole illuminant. "You prefer pencil?" asked Montmorency. "I generally use it for casual purposes. But not," he added, touching the point critically, "like this."