It was the kitchen all right:  there could be no doubt about that.  A strong smell of stale cooking pervaded the warm darkness, and that musty odour brought tears of joy into my eyes.  I took one long luxurious sniff, and then with a last effort I hoisted myself up and scrambled in over the low sill.

As my feet touched the floor there was a sharp click.  A blinding flash of light shot out from the darkness, striking me full in the face, and at the same instant a voice remarked quietly but firmly:  “Put up your hands.”

I put them up.

There was a short pause:  then from the other end of the room a man in a dressing-gown advanced slowly to the table in the centre.  He was holding a small electric torch in one hand and a revolver in the other.  He laid down the former with the light still pointing straight at my face.

“If you attempt to move,” he remarked pleasantly, “I shall blow your brains out.”

With this he walked to the side of the room, struck a match against the wall, and reaching up turned on the gas.

I was much too dazed to do anything, even if I had had the chance.  I just stood there with my hands up, rocking slightly from side to side, and wondering how long it would be before I tumbled over.

My captor remained for a moment under the light, peering at me in silence.  He seemed to be a man of about sixty—­a thin, frail man with white hair and a sharp, deeply lined face.  He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, behind which a pair of hard grey eyes gleamed at me in malicious amusement.

At last he took a step forward, still holding the revolver in his hand.

“A stranger!” he observed.  “Dear me—­what a disappointment!  I hope Mr. Latimer is not ill?”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but his voice sounded very far away.

“If you keep me standing like this much longer,” I managed to jerk out, “I shall most certainly faint.”

I saw him raise his eyebrows in a sort of half-mocking smile.

“Indeed,” he said, “I thought—­”

What he thought I never heard, for the whole room suddenly went dim, and with a quick lurch the floor seemed to get up and spin round beneath my feet.  I suppose I must have pitched forward, for the last thing I remember is clutching wildly but vainly at the corner of the kitchen table.

* * * * *

My first sensation on coming round was a burning feeling in my lips and throat.  Then I suddenly realized that my mouth was full of brandy, and with a surprised gulp I swallowed it down and opened my eyes.

I was lying back in a low chair with a cushion under my head.  Standing in front of me was the gentleman in the dressing-gown, only instead of a revolver he now held an empty wine-glass in his hand.  When he saw that I was recovering he stepped back and placed it on the table.  There was a short pause.

“Well, Mr. Lyndon,” he said slowly, “and how are you feeling now?”