WHEN he awoke it was with a sensation of pain extending all over his body. He was lying on the tiled floor of a small room, which was evidently the kitchen and living room of a labourer’s cottage. A door wide open showed the glimpse of a garden gone to ruin and overgrown with a monstrous growth of weeds.

By the door, holding a spade in one hand, stood Klein.

Freyberger tried to move, but failed. His body was absolutely rigid. From the nape of his neck to his heels ran a board, to which he was splinted by turn upon turn of rope. He tried to speak—he was gagged.

Klein stood and looked at him.

After the first glance round, Freyberger saw nothing but Klein. He could scarcely see his withered face in the shadow cast by the doorpost, but the hand holding the spade stood out awful in its energy and brutality, lit by the storm-light illuminating the doorway.

Then the old man, assured that his victim was awake and in full possession of his senses, began to speak in pantomime.

He pointed to his own lips and to the barred front door as if to indicate secrecy and the fact that the terrible things about to take place would never be known to the world.

Freyberger was not deaf, and the old man was not s............