"Help! _Help_!" sounded in a long drawn-out gasp--a gasp of despair. Something moved in the darkness. Again I "felt," rather than heard it. My mouth grew dry, and fear, a deadly fear of the unknown, possessed me. "Who is there?" I called out loudly. There was no answer, but the sound of my voice gave me courage. I stretched my arm out in the darkness, meaning to reach over to Faulkner's bed and prod him into wakefulness, when by chance I touched something alive. Instantly a cold, damp hand gripped my own, holding it like a vice, and a moment later I was flung down on my back on the bed, and held there firmly by a silent, unseen foe. In vain I struggled to get free, but the speechless, invisible Thing pressing me down in the darkness, kept me pinned to the bed! I was about to cry out, when a third hand closed about my throat, preventing me. It was a soft hand--a woman's hand. Also, as it gripped me, a faint perfume struck my nostrils, a perfume familiar to me, curious, rich, pungent. And then, almost as I stopped struggling, the room was suddenly flooded with light. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. WITHIN AN ACE. Slowly I realised that Paulton was bending over me, holding me down. The Baronne de Coudron, upon the opposite side of the bed, had her thin, strong sinewy hands upon my throat. Beside the gas-jet a yard or two away, Faulkner stood with his hand still holding the little chain he had pulled in order to turn on the light. Nobody spoke. The Baronne, removing her hands from me, stood upright, big and strong, gazing down upon me still. She wore an elaborate kimono made of some soft pink Eastern material. Paulton was in evening clothes, one shirt-cuff was turned back. "You should have taken my advice, m'sieur," the Baronne said in her deep voice, addressing Dago Paulton. She spoke quite calmly. Instead of answering, and without loosening hold, he half-turned, apparently undecided what to do, until his eyes rested upon Faulkner. Then suddenly, to my surprise, he released me. I got up. "Faulkner, come here," he said sharply. The young man--he was in the blue pyjamas he had found laid out upon the bed when Violet de Coudron had shown us into the bedroom--looked quietly at the speaker for a moment or two, then answered with the utmost sang-froid-- "I'm not your servant, hang you! Don't speak to me like that." "You may not be my servant, but I now control your movements," Paulton retorted quickly. "Therefore you will please do what I order. I take it that you know that I brought you and Ashton over here." "Naturally." "Have you any idea why?" "None." "Then I will tell you. Listen." He was standing beside the bed. The Baronne, near him, looked with interest at Faulkner and myself as we now stood together a yard or two away from them. "For some months past," Paulton said, watching me with an unpleasant expression, "you have been on intimate terms with the Thorolds."