Gordon’s head was bent. He was incapable of resistance. Only the helmet he wore saved him from death. He saw nothing, only suddenly the world went black. Scarcely had the blow been struck when half-a-dozen men came from the shadows. Somebody jumped into the driver’s seat, and, flinging out the limp figure of its owner, brought the car still further backward, and switched off the lights. Another of the party removed the red lamps. The policeman bent over the prostrate figure of Dick Gordon. “I thought I’d settled him,” he said, disappointed. “Well, settle him now,” said somebody in the darkness, but evidently the assailant changed his mind. “Hagn will want him,” he said. “Lift him up.” They carried the inanimate figure over the rough ground, through a sliding door, into a big, ill-lit factory hall, bare of machinery. At the far end was a brick partition forming an office, and into this he was carried and flung on the floor. “Here’s your man, Hagn,” growled the policeman. “I think he’s through.” Hagn got up from his table and walked across to where Dick Gordon lay. “I don’t think there’s much wrong with him,” he said. “You couldn’t kill a man through that helmet, anyway. Take it off.” They took the leather helmet from the head of the unconscious man, and Hagn made a brief inspection. “No, he’s all right,” he said. “Throw some water over him. Wait; you’d better search him first. Those cigars,” he said, pointing to the brown cylinders that protruded from his breast pocket, “I want.” The first thing found was the blue envelope, and this Hagn tore open and read. “It seems all right,” he said, and locked it away in the roll-top desk at which he was sitting when Dick had been brought in. “Now give him the water!” Dick came to his senses with a throbbing head and a feeling of resentment against the consciousness which was being forced upon him. He sat up, rubbing his face like a man roused from a heavy sleep, screwed up his eyes in the face of the bright light, and unsteadily stumbled to his feet, looking around from one to the other of the grinning faces. “Oh!” he said at last. “I seem to have struck it. Who hit me?” “We’ll give you his card presently,” sneered Hagn. “Where are you off to at this time of night?” “I’m going to Gloucester,” said Dick. “Like hell you are!” scoffed Hagn. “Put him upstairs, boys.” Leading up from the office was a flight of unpainted pine stairs, and up this he was partly pushed and partly dragged. The room above had been used in war time as an additional supervisor’s office. It had a large window, commanding a view of the whole of the floor space. The window was now thick with grime, and the floor littered with rubbish which the present occupants had not thought it worth while to move. “Search him again, and make sure he hasn’t any gun on him. And take away his boots,” said Hagn.