They were standing in the centre of the room, and Jack Denver looked round with frank curiosity. It certainly was quaint. Above their heads, through the glass dome, he could see the sky glittering with stars—a magnificent view, as his host had said. A thick pile carpet covered the floor, and the only pieces of furniture were a heavy desk that filled half the room and a big chair. The electric light was concealed just where the dome commenced, and threw its direct rays upwards, giving a pleasant diffused light all over the room. And the walls—hexagonal in shape—were completely covered with rich yellow Oriental silk panels. A bizarre room—almost an uncanny room; yet with a strange element of fascination about it. “There was one thing I omitted to mention at dinner in my little story,” said Hubert Garling. “From what small study I have made of the matter, there can be no doubt that Mrs. Shaw and Lord Greyton died of suffocation. In fact, I once made a calculation that the supply of air would have lasted them about twelve hours. This room is half the original size.” “Poor brutes!” remarked Denver. “Moreover,” continued his host, “the fact that Mr. Shaw was unable to watch their death struggle must have robbed his revenge of much of its charm.” For a moment they saw his face—distorted, fiendish; then the door shut, and they were alone. Half stupefied they stared at one another; the whole thing was so sudden, so utterly unexpected. And it was the girl who recovered herself first and spoke. “He knew, Jack,” she whispered. “He’s known all along. That’s why he made me ask you here.” Denver swore softly under his breath; as yet he had not realized the danger. “Damn him!” he said, angrily. “This is beyond a joke. We’ve done absolutely nothing of which we need be ashamed. Why, I’ve never even kissed you, Hilda.” He went to the door and tugged at it; it refused to budge. “Well, this settles it, my dear,” he went on. “He may have a weak heart or he may not—but I don’t stand for this form of humour. I shall tell your husband exactly what I think of him, and that you’re going to come away with me. And he can take what steps he damn well chooses.” He lit a cigarette and began pacing up and down the little room with short, angry steps, while the girl, leaning against the desk, watched him with a strange look in her eyes. “Jack, dear,” she said at length, “I don’t think you quite understand. This isn’t a joke.” He stopped short in his tracks and stared at her. “What do you mean?” he asked, in a low voice. “This is dead earnest. He means to murder us.” The colour slowly left his face. “Murder us?” he stammered, foolishly. “That’s why he told you that story at dinner tonight. That’s why he’s had men working on this tower, and didn’t suggest that you should come over till they’d finished. That’s why he’s locked us in here.” “But, good God! Hilda, the man must be mad,” he said, hoarsely. “On the subject of me he is,” she answered.