He fancied that he was stretched upon the rack, that black-hooded inquisitors were advancing to the torture. He could feel the bonds about hands and feet slowly tighten and stretch, and a pang of agony shot through him. What was it they wanted him to confess? Something involving Jack—something involving Mamie. No, he would never confess—after all, there was nothing to confess—it was a lie they were trying to wring from him. Again the cords tightened and stretched; he was being torn asunder, but he clenched his teeth and crushed back the groan which would have burst from him. Again—and this time there was no resisting, and he cried aloud— Cried aloud and opened his eyes, and, after a moment, realized where he was. He was panting for breath, for the air was thick with smoke. Afar off, he could hear a frantic shouting, which beat in upon his brain and turned him faint, so agonized it was. They were torturing some one else—they had left him for the moment to regain some measure of strength. No, they had decided to suffocate him; they had started a fire under him—it was to be the trial of flame! Mamie, Mamie—he would never tell! Then, suddenly, he understood. The house was on fire—that madman had fired it—that shouting was from the other prisoners, who were perhaps already being roasted alive! Roasted alive! He wrenched frantically at his bonds, but they held as though of iron. He struggled to a sitting posture, but could rise no further. By an effort almost superhuman, he dragged himself to the door, and turning his back to it, tore at it with his fingers. Then he managed to raise himself so that his fingers clutched the latch; the door swung open and he fell backward into the hall. That fall racked him with agony, but, with sweat running down his face in little rivulets, he managed to grovel forward, inch by inch, pushing himself along by his legs, sparing his injured shoulder as much as he could. One foot, two feet, three feet. Then, suddenly, he realized that his head was hanging over an abyss—his shoulders were over—and in an instant he had pitched forward wildly, and fell shrieking into the darkness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXI “C. Q. D.” IN the gray dawn of the winter morning, Mamie Welsh started wide awake from the restless doze into which she had fallen. She sat up in bed, her head to one side as though listening for some faint and distant sound. Then, with a quick movement, she threw back the bed-clothes, slipped to the floor, pulled a shawl about her, thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, and ran to the door of the room where her father and mother slept. Mary Welsh, a light sleeper at all times, was awake at the first tap of Mamie’s fingers. “Who’s there?” she called. “It’s me, Mamie.”