“Not much, there’s no fire there. We’ll put him in there if you like. No, don’t shout, Fratten; no one’ll hear you and you’ll get a bullet for a certainty; as it is, you’ve got just a hundred to one chance that we may hit on some way of pulling this off without wringing your neck. Lessingham will plead for you and I’m sure your Daphne’ll do all she can for her fancy boy. Come on, you’ll have to hop.” Within two minutes, Ryland Fratten was securely tied to the table on which Mr. Blagge was accustomed to do the daily and exciting tasks which were his work in life. With his back flat along the table top, one arm tied to each table leg at one end and an ankle to each at the other—with a ruler stuffed in his mouth and tied round his head with a duster, Ryland was unable to move an inch or make the slightest sound. “We’ll leave your eyes and ears free,” said Wraile jokingly—and thereby made, in all probability, the most vital mistake of his life. The door closed, and Ryland was left alone in the dark and bitter cold—alone with his thoughts and with fear—the fear of death, immediate and solitary—death without a word or a look from his friends, from those he loved—not a touch of the hand from the girl who had just begun to dawn, in all her loveliness, upon his awakening consciousness. In a frenzy of rage and terror Ryland struggled to free his wrists or legs, to shout for help—even if it meant bringing death upon him; not a sound could he make, not the slightest loosening of his bonds could he effect; he could not even move the table to which he was bound. Back in the Board Room, Wraile dropped the chaffing manner that had carried him through the none-too-pleasant task of preparing a fellow man for his death. His face now was hard and drawn. Lessingham greeted him with a nervous protest. “Look here, Wraile,” he cried, “this is madness. You can’t kill the boy like this—here, in our own office, without any preparations, any plans. Think of all the time and trouble we had to take to . . . even that has been as good as found out. If we do this now, they’re bound to trace it to us.” “Oh, cut it out!” exclaimed Wraile angrily. “D’you think I’m going to slit his throat here and let him bleed all over Blagge’s papers? Give me a minute or two to make a plan, for God’s sake. You must see that we can’t let the fellow go now. Apart from his recognizing Miriam—that’s one thing they haven’t spotted yet—he may have heard everything we were saying in here. I can’t remember now exactly what we did say, but we must have given ourselves away pretty completely.” While this wrangle over a man’s life was going on, Miriam Wraile sat, swinging a leg, on one end of the Board table, busily engaged in polishing her well-shaped nails with a small pad taken from her handbag. It was evident that, as far as she was concerned, the issue would be settled by her husband—all she had to do was to wait for orders.