"It will be an easy task," said Brettison, with a piteous look at Stratton. "No sounds are heard outside these chambers--not even pistol shots." There was an intense bitterness in those last words which made the young man shrink, and as Brettison went on, "I shall not struggle against my fate," he uttered a cry of bitterness and rage. "Sit down!" he said fiercely. "Why do you taunt me like this? You have been here before from time to time. Why have you hidden from me like this?" "I have my reasons," said Brettison slowly. "Why have you come?" "You ask me that!" "Yes. You have hunted me for months now, till my life has been worthless. Have you come to take it now?" "Why should I take your life?" "To save your own. You believe I heard or witnessed--that." He paused before uttering the last word, and pointed to the door on his left. Stratton could not suppress a shudder; but, as he saw the peculiar way in which the old man's eyes were fixed upon his, a feeling of resentment arose within him, and his voice sounded strident and harsh when he spoke again. "I had no such thoughts," he said. "You know better, sir. Come, let us understand one another. I am reckless now." "Yes," said Brettison coldly. "Then, if you have any fear for your life, you can call for help; that is, for someone to be within call to protect you, for what we have to say must be for our ears alone." Brettison did not answer for a few moments, during which time he watched the other narrowly. "I am not afraid, Malcolm," he said; and he seated himself calmly in his chair. Then, motioning to another, he waited until Stratton was seated. "Yes," he said quietly, "I have been here from time to time to get my letters." "Why have you hidden yourself away?" cried Stratton fiercely. "Ah! Why?" said Brettison, gazing at him thoughtfully from beneath his thick, grey eyebrows. "You want a reason? Well, I am old and independent, with a liking to do what I please. Malcolm Stratton, I am not answerable to any man for my actions." Stratton started up, and took a turn to and fro in the dusty room before throwing himself again in his chair, while the old man quietly took the long, snake like tube of his pipe in hand, examined the bowl to find it still alight, began to smoke with all the gravity of a Mussulman, and the tobacco once more began to scent the air of the silent place. Stratton's lips parted again and again, but no words would come. In his wild excitement and dread of what he knew he must learn, he could not frame the questions he panted to ask in this crisis of his life, and at last it was with a cry of rage as much as appeal that he said: "Man, man, am I to be tortured always? Why don't you speak?" "You have hunted me from place to place, Malcolm Stratton, in your desperation to find out that which I felt you had better not know; and now you have found me--brought me to bay--I wait for you to question me."