The man's ruddy brown face paled yellow, yet he kept a certain measure of self-possession, his eyes did not quail. "What do you want?" he asked in a firm, low voice. "The little black book." The man's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you mean," he said quickly. Greg saw a tell-tale bulge over his right breast. "You lie!" he said. "It's in your pocket. Quick with it, or I'll shoot!" A curious glint showed in the other's jetty eyes which never left Greg's. His hand went slowly inside his coat and reappeared with the little black book. Greg with a leaping heart took it in his free hand; this had come easier than he had dared hope. He started to back down the corridor, keeping de Socotra covered with the gun. The latter came to the door and stood watching him with expressionless face. Greg dared not look behind him. It was about twenty-five feet to the big doors; he had measured it with his eyes; say, eight long paces. He had taken five, when the sound of the door softly latching behind him caused his heart to contract sharply. He whirled around. At the same instant de Socotra sprang at him. Greg was seized from both sides before he could find a mark to aim at. The second who had seized him was the negro servant, a fellow of gigantic stature with muscles like steel bands. As Greg started to run he had caught him in his embrace, pinning Greg's arms close to his sides and keeping the gun deflected downwards. De Socotra with a blow on Greg's wrist disarmed him. Greg's struggles were as vain as those of an infant. He ceased to struggle, designing to save his strength for a better occasion. Moreover he was afraid the sounds of a struggle might reach the girl outside and provoke her to some rash act. With her puny strength she could not help him now. De Socotra repocketed the little black book, also Greg's revolver. He relaxed and laughed mockingly. "I don't know what your game is, my man, but evidently it was a little beyond you!" Greg glared at him. "Murderer!" was on his tongue's tip, but prudence restrained him from uttering it. "Look here," said the other suddenly; "tell me who sent you here, and the door shall be opened for you to go. I don't fight with cabmen. You may go back freely to him who sent you and give him my compliments." Greg obstinately closed his mouth. "It's a fair offer," said de Socotra mildly. "Better take it. There are men up-stairs who will not let you off so easily." Again he waited to give Greg a chance to speak. Finally he said: "I can't wait here all night, you know." "You needn't wait," said Greg. "I'm not going to tell you." De Socotra favored him with a sharp look. "I beg your pardon," he said ironically; "I see you're no cabman. Milio, bring him up-stairs."