“Yes. I fancied there was a resemblance between you and an artist named Müller, no, no, an artist named Kolbecker. Ah! there I am again, my memory is playing me false. Upon my word, if this goes on I shall resign my position and my trade, which, after all, is a dirty trade, seeing that it is the trade of catching murderers and delivering them to the hangman. KLEIN was the name of the artist, he was a sculptor.” The other said nothing, his face was still immobile, but a great drop of sweat was coursing down the side of it. The clouds were rolling in funereal masses over Reading and spreading towards the southern sky. A few large drops of rain fell on the dust of the road and the occasional grumbling of thunder sounded as if from a vast distance. The road took a turn upon itself, and there, a hundred yards or so away in front of them, well set back from the highway and half hidden by a hedge, lay a cottage. Freyberger was only waiting now to discover the living place of the man beside him before arresting him. They were nearly level with the cottage gate, when, unperceived by Freyberger, the old man’s left hand stole into the old man’s pocket. Next moment Freyberger, with a gasping cry and hands outspread, fell face forward in the dust of the road—sandbagged. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XL WHEN he awoke it was with a sensation of pain extending all over his body. He was lying on the tiled floor of a small room, which was evidently the kitchen and living room of a labourer’s cottage. A door wide open showed the glimpse of a garden gone to ruin and overgrown with a monstrous growth of weeds. By the door, holding a spade in one hand, stood Klein. Freyberger tried to move, but failed. His body was absolutely rigid. From the nape of his neck to his heels ran a board, to which he was splinted by turn upon turn of rope. He tried to speak—he was gagged. Klein stood and looked at him. After the first glance round, Freyberger saw nothing but Klein. He could scarcely see his withered face in the shadow cast by the doorpost, but the hand holding the spade stood out awful in its energy and brutality, lit by the storm-light illuminating the doorway. Then the old man, assured that his victim was awake and in full possession of his senses, began to speak in pantomime. He pointed to his own lips and to the barred front door as if to indicate secrecy and the fact that the terrible things about to take place would never be known to the world. Freyberger was not deaf, and the old man was not speechless, yet he never uttered a word, though he chuckled at times, making that sound which had frozen Leloir’s heart when he had heard it issue from the lips of Sir Anthony Gyde in the corridor at Throstle Hall.