The silence as he crossed
the room seemed a little ominous. He looked over his shoulder. They were
all three standing in their places, looking at him. A vague sense of
uneasiness disturbed his equanimity.

"No offence, gents," he said, "and good afternoon!"

Still no reply. He reached the door and turned the handle. The door
was fast. He shook it--gently at first, and then violently. Suddenly he
realized that it was locked. He turned sharply around.

"What game's this?" he exclaimed, fiercely. "Let me out!"

They stood in their places without movement. There was something a
little ominous in their silence. Masters was fast becoming a sober man.

"Let me out of here," he exclaimed, "or I'll break the door down!"

Sir Richard Dyson came slowly towards him. There was something in his
appearance which terrified Masters. He raised his fist to strike the
door. He was a fighting man, but he felt a sudden sense of impotence.

"Mr. Masters," Sir Richard said suavely, "the truth is that we cannot
afford to let you go--unless you agree to do what we have asked. You
see we really have not the money or any way of raising it--and the
inconvenience of being posted you have yourself very ably pointed out.
Change your mind, Mr. Masters. Take those bills. We'll do our best to
meet them."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," Masters answered, striking the door
fiercely with his clenched fist. "I'll have cash--nothing but the cash!"

There was a dull, sickening thud, and the bookmaker went over like a
shot rabbit. His legs twitched for a moment--a little moan that was
scarcely audible broke from his lips. Then he lay quite still. Sir
Richard bent over him with the life preserver still in his hand.

"I've done it!" he muttered, hoarsely. "One blow! Thank Heaven, he
didn't want another! His skull was as soft as pudding! Ugh!"

He turned away. The man who lay stretched upon the floor was an ugly
sight. His two companions, cowering over the table, were not much
better. Dyson's trembling fingers went out for the brandy decanter. Half
of what he poured out was spilled upon the tablecloth. The rest he drank
from a tumbler, neat.

"It's nervous work, this, you fellows," he said, hoarsely.

"It's hellish!" Dickinson answered. "Let's have some air in the room. By
God, it's close!"

He sank back into his chair, white to the lips. Dyson looked at him
sharply.

"Look here," he exclaimed, "I hold you both to our bargain! I was to be
the one