He flung back the half-throttled man with such force that the woodwork of the chair cracked and splintered beneath his weight. Joe, who had been looking on with silent approval hauled the victim unceremoniously to his feet. "Nah, cocky," he said, "where's the young laidy? Spit it aht quick." Choking and gasping for breath, Medwin retreated toward the sofa. "You're making some terrible mistake. I know nothing about it, on my honour." "Your _what_?" Colin laughed unpleasantly. "I don't know if you're really under the impression that you can bluff this out, Medwin, but if you are, you're making the mistake of your life." He put his hand in his pocket, and, pulling out a coil of whipcord, which he had stopped to purchase on his way down, tossed it across to Joe. "Lay him on the sofa," he said, "and tie up his feet and hands. If he makes the slightest sound, give him a punch in the mouth." Joe moved forward with alacrity, and, turning to the fireplace, Colin picked up a small ornamental poker which was standing against the hearth, and thrust it deliberately into the hottest part of the fire. Then, lighting himself a cigarette, he stood looking on in silence, while with swift efficiency Joe proceeded to carry out his instructions. "That will do," he observed at last, "Now, Medwin, you can take your choice. You will either tell me at once where Miss Seymour is, or else I shall burn the truth out of you with that poker." Trussed and helpless, Medwin gazed across at him from the sofa. "For God's sake think what you're doing," he whispered. "Can't you see that the whole thing's a ghastly blunder? I swear to you on my oath that I have never even heard of either of the people you have mentioned." "In that case," said Colin, "it's rather curious that you keep a photograph of Fenton on your dining room mantelpiece." He stooped down, and, drawing out the poker which was now a glowing red, advanced relentlessly toward the sofa. Two little beads of perspiration broke out on Medwin's forehead and trickled down into his eyes. "Stop!" he gasped. "Stop! You young devil, I believe you mean it." Colin laughed again. "Shove something in his mouth, Joe. We don't want the whole street to hear him squealing." By a violent effort Medwin managed to wriggle himself up into a sitting position. "It's all right, Gray," he said quietly. "You needn't go any further. I know when I'm beaten." He sank back against the cushions, and with a queer half-incredulous expression, stared up into Colin's face. "I am not often mistaken in my judgment of people," he said, "but I seem to have blundered pretty badly with regard to you." "Answer my questions," said Colin. "Where's Miss Seymour?" "She's at Fenton's cottage in Essex, close to South Ockendon. It's a small white house called 'The Firs,' on the right hand of the road, just before you reach the village." Colin walked to the desk and wrote down his directions on a blank sheet of paper.