are
talking about, I'll find the antidote, and as sure as there's a prison
in America, so surely I'll make you suffer for it! If you take my
advice," he went on slowly, "and I know what I'm talking about, you'll
cut these ropes and set open your front door. You 'll live longer, all
of you."

"An idiot," Elizabeth remarked pleasantly, "can do but little harm in
the world. The word of a person of weak intellect is not to be relied
upon. For my part, I am very tired of our friend, Mr. Pritchard. If you
others had been disposed to go to much greater lengths, if you had said
'Hang him from the ceiling,' I should have been well pleased."

Pritchard made a slight movement in his chair--it was certainly not a
movement of fear.

"Madam," he said, "I admire your candor. Let me return it. I don't
believe there's one of you here has the pluck to attempt to do me
any serious injury. If there is, get on with it. You hear, Mr. Walter
Crease? Bring out that bottle of yours."

Crease removed his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet. From
his waistcoat pocket he produced a small phial, from which he drew the
cork.

"Seems to me it's up to us to do the trick," he remarked languidly.
"Catch hold of his forehead, Jimmy."

The man known as Major Post threw away his cigarette, and coming round
behind Pritchard's chair, suddenly bent the man's head backward.
Crease advanced, phial in hand. Then all Hell seemed to be let loose in
Tavernake. He stepped back in his place and marked the extent of that
wooden partition. Then, setting his teeth, he sprang at it, throwing
the great weight of his massive shoulder against the framework door.
Scratched and bleeding, but still upon his feet, he burst into the room,
with the noise of bricks falling behind,--an apparition so unexpected
that the little company gathered there seemed turned into some waxwork
group from the Chamber of Horrors--motionless, without even the power of
movement.

Tavernake, in those few moments, was like a giant among a company of
degenerates. He was strong, his muscles were like whipcord, and his
condition was perfect. Walter Crease went over like a log before his
fist; Major Post felt the revolver at which he had snatched struck from
his hand, and he himself remembered nothing more till he came to his
senses some time afterwards. A slash and a cut and Pritchard was free.
The professor stood wringing his hands. Elizabeth had risen to her feet.
She was pale, b