Apparently they all worked on the pick system, a method which medieval conspirators favoured, and which the Italian workmen probably imported from the land of their birth; a land which has given the world the Borgias and the Medicis and the Visconti. "Stay here," said T. B. in a low voice, and Lady Constance shrank back against the wall. Ela pressed in his little needle and again the result was satisfactory. The door opened slowly and T. B. stepped in. He stood for a moment trying to understand all that the terrible scene signified. The limp body on the floor; the two remorseless men standing close by; Farrington with folded arms and his eye glowering down upon the dead man at his feet. Fall at the switchboard. Then T. B.'s revolver rose swiftly. "Hands up!" he said. The words were hardly out of his mouth when the room was plunged in darkness, his companion was flung violently backward as the electrical control came into operation and the door slammed in Ela's face. He pressed it without avail. He brought to his aid the little needle, but this time the lock would not move. Ela's face went chalk white. "My God!" he gasped, "they've got T. B.!" He stood for a moment in indecision. He had visualized the scene and knew what fate would befall his chief. "Back to the gallery," he said harshly, and led the way, holding the woman's arm in support. He found his way without difficulty to the lift, sprang into it, after Lady Constance, and pressed the button.... Now they were speeding along the sparking rail ... now they were in the lift rising swiftly to the room in Moor Cottage. T. B.'s car was outside. "You had better come with me," said Ela quickly. Lady Constance jumped into the car after him. "To the Secret House," said Ela to the chauffeur, and as the car drove forward he turned to the woman at his side. "I will put you amongst your friends in a few moments," he said; "at present I dare not risk the loss of a second." "But what will they do?" "I pretty well know what they will do," said Ela grimly. "Farrington is playing his last hand, and T. B. Smith is to be his last victim." In the darkness of the underground chamber T. B. faced his enemies, striving to pierce the gloom, his finger in position upon the delicate trigger of his automatic pistol. "Do not move," he said softly; "I will shoot without any hesitation." "There is no need to shoot," said the suave voice of the doctor; "the lights went out, quite by accident, I assure you, and you and your friends have no need to fear." T. B. groped his way along the wall, his revolver extended. In the gloom he felt rather than saw the bulky figure of the doctor and reached out his hand gingerly. Then something touched the outstretched palm, something that in ordinary circumstances might have felt like the rough points of a bass broom. T. B. was flung violently backwards and fell heavily to the ground.