A smaller card was tossed across on to the table. The fat hand which the financier extended toward the card shook grotesquely; the diamonds which adorned it sparkled and twinkled starrily. Before his eyes a red mist seemed to dance; but, through it, Rohscheimer made out the following: "There is a cheque-book in your coat pocket, and your coat hangs beside me in the wardrobe. I will throw the book across to you. You will make out a cheque for L100,000, payable to the editor of the _Gleaner_, and also write a note explaining that this is your contribution towards the fund for the founding, by patriotic Britons, of a suitable air fleet." Rohscheimer, out of the corner of his eye, was watching the gleaming barrel, which pointed straightly at his head. From the dark gap between the wardrobe doors sped a second projectile, and fell before him on the table. It was his cheque-book. Mechanically he opened it. Within was stuck another card. Upon it, in the same evidently disguised handwriting, appeared: "A fountain pen lies on the table before you. Do not hesitate to follow instructions--or I shall shoot you. All arrangements are made for my escape. Throw the cheque and the note behind you and do not dare to look around again until you have my permission. If you do so once, I may only warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you." Perfect silence ruled. Even the traffic in Park Lane outside seemed momentarily to have ceased. From the wardrobe behind Julius Rohscheimer came no sound. He took up the pen; made out and signed the preposterous cheque. To the ruling but silent intelligence concealed behind those double doors he had no thought of appeal. He dared not even address himself to that invisible being. Such idea was as far from his mind as it must have been of old from the mind of him who listened to a Sybilline oracle delivered from the mystic tripod. Sufficiently he controlled his twitching fingers to write a note, as follows--(what awful irony!): "To the Editor of the _Gleaner_, "SIR,--I enclose a cheque for L100,000" (as he wrote these dreadful words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the silence--the fearful silence--and the thought of the one who watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote on). "I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government for purposes of ariel" (Rohscheimer was no scholar) "defence. I hope others will follow suit." (He _did_. It was horrible to be immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of this priest of iconoclasm)--"I am, sir, yours, etc. "JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER." Cheque and note he folded together, and stretching his hand behind him, threw them in the direction of the haunted wardrobe. His fear that, even now, he might be assassinated, grew to such dimensions that he came near to swooning. But upon no rearward glance did he venture.