But that was a question for which he could find no reasonable answer; nor could he even guess at his assailant’s identity. This murderous assault had made the mystery more puzzling than ever, for he could guess at no motive for it. Certainly he was not the victim of personal enmity, for he knew that he had no enemies—Dan Nolan’s death had delivered him from the only one he ever had who was capable of resorting to such methods as this. Nor could he see how his being held a prisoner here could possibly be of any benefit to anyone. Indeed, there was certain to be a hue and cry after him if he was held a prisoner long. Stanley would know where to look for him—and there were Jack and Reddy. Allan’s eyes filled with tears as he thought of the anxiety they were doubtless suffering. And Mamie—was she suffering, too? Somehow, the thought of her was a very dear and moving one, and he whispered her name over and over to himself. If only— He felt singularly weak and helpless; he could do nothing but lie where he was and await the will of his captors. He wondered vaguely what they would do with him, and he turned the thought over in his mind with a kind of impersonal interest as though it were not at all himself, but someone else entirely who was principally concerned. It seemed almost as though he were watching a drama in which he himself was an actor. The cramped posture in which he lay became insupportable at last, and he managed, with infinite suffering, to turn himself over on his side. Then, finding himself somewhat easier, he at last dropped off to sleep. He was awakened by a flash of light in his eyes. For a minute, he saw only a dim figure holding a lantern, then, with clearing vision, he found himself staring into a face which sent a chill of horror through him. Never before had he seen a face so repulsive. The round head, set low between the shoulders, was crowned by a dirty towsel of hair which fell over the low forehead almost into the eyes. These, bloodshot and venomous, were sunk deep into the head and ambushed under bristling eyebrows. The nose, a mere unformed lump of flesh, overhung a mouth whose pendulous, blackened lips were parted in a malicious grin. The figure was squat and heavy, telling of great strength and even of a certain agility; but to the figure Allan gave only a single glance, for the face fascinated him as only superlatively ugly things can. For a moment, this being stood shading his eyes from the lantern light with a great, hairy hand, and staring down at his prisoner. Then, with a hoarse grunt of satisfaction, he turned toward the door. But Allan, mustering all his courage, shouted after him. “Hold on!” he cried. “Hold on!” The fellow hesitated for an instant, and then turned back, and stood regarding Allan with that diabolical leer still upon his lips. “What’s all this about?” demanded Allan, steeling himself to endure the gaze of those crafty and threatening eyes. “How long am I going to be kept here?”