He clanged the gate to, doubly locked it, and walked to the door which led to the office. “You will stay here for forty-eight hours,” he said, “at the end of which time you will be released--on my word. It may be inconvenient for you, but there are many inconvenient happenings in this life which we must endure. I commend you to Providence.” He went out, and was gone for a quarter of an hour. Gilbert thought he had left, but he returned carrying a large jug of coffee, two brand new quart vacuum flasks, and two packages of what proved to be sandwiches. “I cannot starve you,” he said. “You had better keep your coffee hot. You will have a long wait, and as you may be cold I have brought this.” He went back to the office and carried out two heavy overcoats and thrust them through the bars. “That is very decent of you,” said Gilbert. “Not at all,” said the polite Mr. Wallis. Gilbert was unarmed, and had he possessed a weapon it would have been of no service to him. The pistol had not left Wallis’s hand, and even as he handed the food through the grill the butt of the automatic Colt was still gripped in his palm. “I wish you a very good evening. If you would like to send a perfectly non-committal note to your wife, saying that you were too busy to come back, I should be delighted to see it delivered.” He passed through the bars a sheet of paper and a stylograph pen. It was a thoughtful thing to do, and Gilbert appreciated it. This man, scoundrel as he was, had nicer instincts than many who had never brought themselves within the pale of the law. He scribbled a note excusing himself, folded up the sheet and placed it in the envelope, sealing it down before he realised that his captor would want to read it. “I am very sorry,” he said, “but you can open it, the gum is still wet.” Wallis shook his head. “If you will tell me that there is nothing more than I asked you to write, or than I expected you to write, that is sufficient,” he said. So he left Gilbert alone and with much to think about. CHAPTER XIII. THE MAKER OF WILLS General Sir John Standerton was a man of hateful and irascible temper. The excuse was urged for him that he had spent the greater portion of his life in India, a country calculated to undermine the sweetest disposition. He was a bachelor and lived alone, save for a small army of servants. He had renamed the country mansion he had purchased twenty years before: it was now known from one end of the country to the other as The Residency, and here he maintained an almost feudal state. His enemies said that he kept his battalion of servants at full strength so that he might always have somebody handy to swear at, but that was obviously spite. It was said, too, that every year a fresh firm of solicitors acted for him, and it is certain that he changed his banks with extraordinary rapidity.