Arthur struggled desperately for breath as another handful of water was dashed into his face. The blackness seemed to fall away from him in pieces with a rushing noise; then he woke suddenly into full consciousness, and, pushing aside the warder's arm, walked along the corridor and up the stairs almost steadily. They stopped for a moment in front of a door; then it opened, and before he realized where they were taking him he was in the brightly lighted interrogation room, staring in confused wonder at the table and the papers and the officers sitting in their accustomed places. “Ah, it's Mr. Burton!” said the colonel. “I hope we shall be able to talk more comfortably now. Well, and how do you like the dark cell? Not quite so luxurious as your brother's drawing room, is it? eh?” Arthur raised his eyes to the colonel's smiling face. He was seized by a frantic desire to spring at the throat of this gray-whiskered fop and tear it with his teeth. Probably something of this kind was visible in his face, for the colonel added immediately, in a quite different tone: “Sit down, Mr. Burton, and drink some water; you are excited.” Arthur pushed aside the glass of water held out to him; and, leaning his arms on the table, rested his forehead on one hand and tried to collect his thoughts. The colonel sat watching him keenly, noting with experienced eyes the unsteady hands and lips, the hair dripping with water, the dim gaze that told of physical prostration and disordered nerves. “Now, Mr. Burton,” he said after a few minutes; “we will start at the point where we left off; and as there has been a certain amount of unpleasantness between us, I may as well begin by saying that I, for my part, have no desire to be anything but indulgent with you. If you will behave properly and reasonably, I assure you that we shall not treat you with any unnecessary harshness.” “What do you want me to do?” Arthur spoke in a hard, sullen voice, quite different from his natural tone. “I only want you to tell us frankly, in a straightforward and honourable manner, what you know of this society and its adherents. First of all, how long have you known Bolla?” “I never met him in my life. I know nothing whatever about him.” “Really? Well, we will return to that subject presently. I think you know a young man named Carlo Bini?” “I never heard of such a person.” “That is very extraordinary. What about Francesco Neri?” “I never heard the name.” “But here is a letter in your handwriting, addressed to him. Look!” Arthur glanced carelessly at the letter and laid it aside. “Do you recognize that letter?” “No.” “You deny that it is in your writing?” “I deny nothing. I have no recollection of it.” “Perhaps you remember this one?” A second letter was handed to him, and he saw that it was one which he had written in the autumn to a fellow-student. “No.” “Nor the person to whom it is addressed?” “Nor the person.” “Your memory is singularly short.”