the approach of the squat man he sprang to his feet, but a phrase
dissipated his apprehension and he nodded toward a door.

"Unlock it for me and see that I am not disturbed."

Presently the squat man stood inside the room, which was dark. He
struck a match and peered about for the candle. The light discovered
a room barren of all furniture excepting the table upon which stood
the candle, and a single chair. In this chair was a man, bound.
He was small and dapper, his gray hair swept back a la Liszt. His
chin was on his breast, his body limp. Apparently the bonds alone
held him in the chair.

The squat man laid his bundle on the table and approached the
prisoner.

"Stefani Gregor, look up; it is I!" He drummed on his chest like
a challenging gorilla. "I, Boris Karlov!"

Slowly the eyelids of the prisoner went up, revealing mild blue eyes.
But almost instantly the mildness was replaced by an agate hardness,
and the body became upright.

"Yes, it is Boris, whom you betrayed. But I escaped by a hair,
Stefani; and we meet again."

What good to tell this poor madman that Stefani Gregor had not
betrayed him, that he had only warned those marked for death? There
was no longer reason inside that skull. To die, probably in a few
moments. So be it. Had he not been ready for seven years? But