“What share does Herr Newton get? And if you so graciously honoured me with a portion of your so justly deserved gains, to what extent would be that share?” The other considered this, puffing away until the room was a mist of smoke. “Ten thousand English pounds,” he said at last. “Gracious and learned doctor, that is a very small proportion of many millions,” said Gurther gently. “Newton will receive one half,” said the doctor, his face working nervously, “if he is alive. If misfortune came to him, that share would be yours, Gurther, my brave fellow! And with so much money a man would not be hunted. The rich and the noble would fawn upon him; he would have his lovely yacht and steam about the summer seas everlastingly, huh?” Gurther rose and clicked his heels. “Do you desire me again this evening?” “No, no, Gurther.” The old man shook his head. “And pray remember that there is another day to-morrow, and yet another day after. We shall wait and hear what our friend has to say. Good night, Gurther.” “Good night, Herr Doktor.” The doctor looked at the door for a long time after his man had gone and took up his book. He was deep in the chapter which was headed, in the German tongue: “The Subconscious Activity of the Human Intellect in Relation to the Esoteric Emotions.” To Dr. Oberzohn this was more thrilling than the most exciting novel. _Chapter XXVI_ _In Captivity_ THE second day of captivity dawned unseen, in a world that lay outside the brick roof and glazed white walls of Mirabelle Leicester’s prison-house. She had grown in strength and courage, but not so her companion. Joan, who had started her weary vigil with an almost cheerful gaiety, had sunk deeper and deeper into depression as the hours progressed, and Mirabelle woke to the sound of a woman’s sobs, to find the girl sitting on the side of her bed, her head in her wet hands. “I hate this place!” she sobbed. “Why does he keep me here? God! If I thought the hound was double-crossing me . . . ! I’ll go mad if they keep me here any longer. I will, Leicester!” she screamed. “I’ll make some tea,” said Mirabelle, getting out of bed and finding her slippers. The girl sat throughout the operation huddled in a miserable heap, and by and by her whimpering got on Mirabelle’s nerves. “I don’t know why _you_ should be wretched,” she said. “They’re not after _your_ money!” “You can laugh—and how you can, I don’t know,” sobbed the girl, as she took the cup in her shaking hands. “I know I’m a fool, but I’ve never been locked up—like this before. I didn’t dream he’d break his word. He swore he’d come yesterday. What time is it?” “Six o’clock,” said Mirabelle. It might as well have been eight or midday, for all she knew to the contrary.