ud.

"Now!" it said. "Do it now!"

The room was empty. Only the Manager and himself were in it.

Jones turned from his desk where he had been standing, and locked the
door leading into the main office. He saw the army of clerks scribbling
in their shirt-sleeves, for the upper half of the door was of glass. He
had perfect control of himself, and his heart was beating steadily.

The Manager, hearing the key turn in the lock, looked up sharply.

"What's that you're doing?" he asked quickly.

"Only locking the door, sir," replied the secretary in a quite even
voice.

"Why? Who told you to--?"

"The voice of Justice, sir," replied Jones, looking steadily into the
hated face.

The Manager looked black for a moment, and stared angrily across the
room at him. Then suddenly his expression changed as he stared, and he
tried to smile. It was meant to be a kind smile evidently, but it only
succeeded in being frightened.

"That _is_ a good idea in this weather," he said lightly, "but it would
be much better to lock it on the _outside_, wouldn't it, Mr. Jones?"

"I think not, sir. You might escape me then. Now you can't."

Jones took his pistol out and pointed it at the other's face. Down the
barrel he saw the features of the tall dark man, evil and sinister. Then
the outline trembled a little and the face of the Manager slipped back
into its place. It was white as death, and shining with perspiration.

"You tortured me to death four hundred years ago," said the clerk in the
same steady voice, "and now the dispensers of justice have chosen me to
punish you."

The Manager's face turned to flame, and then back to chalk again. He
made a quick movement towards the telephone bell, stretching out a hand
to reach it, but at the same moment Jones pulled the trigger and the
wrist was shattered, splashing the wall behind with blood.

"That's _one_ place where the chains burnt," he said quietly to himself.
His hand was absolutely steady, and he felt that he was a hero.

The Manager was on his feet, with a scream of pain, supporting himself
with his right hand on the desk in front of him, but Jones pressed the
trigger again, and a bullet flew into the other wrist, so that the big
man, deprived of support, fell forward with a crash on to the desk.

"You damned madman!" shrieked the Manager. "Drop that pistol!"

"That's _another_ place," was all Jones said, still taking careful aim
for another shot.

The big man, screaming a