“I will arrange this,” said M. Pallion, and drove a nail into the frame at exactly the place where a nail should not have been driven. But he was getting flurried, for the soldiers had marched on to the ground.… Four hours later (it was light enough for an enterprising photographer to snap the prisoner close at hand), they marched a man from the prison.… “Courage!” murmured M. Pallion. “Go to hell!” said the victim, now lying strapped upon the plank. M. Pallion pulled a handle and the knife fell… but only as far as the nail. Three times he tried and three times he failed, and then the indignant spectators broke through the military cordon, and the prisoner was taken back into the gaol. Eleven years later that nail killed many people. Chapter I. The Initiation It was an hour when most respectable citizens were preparing for bed, and the upper windows of the big, old-fashioned houses in the square showed patches of light, against which the outlines of the leafless trees, bending and swaying under the urge of the gale, were silhouetted. A cold wind was sweeping up the river, and its outriders penetrated icily into the remotest and most sheltered places. The man who paced slowly by the high iron railings shivered, though he was warmly clad, for the unknown had chosen a rendezvous which seemed exposed to the full blast of the storm. The débris of the dead autumn whirled in fantastic circles about his feet, the twigs and leaves came rattling down from the trees which threw their long gaunt arms above him, and he looked enviously at the cheerful glow in the windows of a house where, did he but knock, he would be received as a welcome guest. The hour of eleven boomed out from a nearby clock, and the last stroke was reverberating when a car came swiftly and noiselessly into the square and halted abreast of him. The two head-lamps burned dimly. Within the closed body there was no spark of light. After a moment’s hesitation the waiting man stepped to the car, opened the door, and got in. He could only guess the outline of the driver’s figure in the seat ahead, and he felt a curious thumping of heart as he realised the terrific importance of the step he had taken. The car did not move, and the man in the driver’s seat remained motionless. For a little time there was a dead silence, which was broken by the passenger. “Well?” he asked nervously, almost irritably. “Have you decided?” asked the driver. “Should I be here if I hadn’t?” demanded the passenger. “Do you think I’ve come out of curiosity? What do you want of me? Tell me that, and I will tell you what I want of you.” “I know what you want of me,” said the driver. His voice was muffled and indistinct, as one who spoke behind a veil. When the newcomer’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he detected the vague outline of the black silk cowl which covered the driver’s head.