“I have seen him,” said the Russian slowly.  “Spoken to him face to face.  I did not know it until afterwards.  He was one of a crowd.  I should not know him again.  Who is he really?  I do not know.  But I know this—­he is a man to fear.”

“He’ll never know,” said Julius.

“He knows everything—­and his vengeance is swift.  Even I—­Kramenin!—­would not be exempt!”

“Then you won’t do as I ask you?”

“You ask an impossibility.”

“Sure that’s a pity for you,” said Julius cheerfully.  “But the world in general will benefit.”  He raised the revolver.

“Stop,” shrieked the Russian.  “You cannot mean to shoot me?”

“Of course I do.  I’ve always heard you Revolutionists held life cheap, but it seems there’s a difference when it’s your own life in question.  I gave you just one chance of saving your dirty skin, and that you wouldn’t take!”

“They would kill me!”

“Well,” said Julius pleasantly, “it’s up to you.  But I’ll just say this.  Little Willie here is a dead cert, and if I was you I’d take a sporting chance with Mr. Brown!”

“You will hang if you shoot me,” muttered the Russian irresolutely.

“No, stranger, that’s where you’re wrong.  You forget the dollars.  A big crowd of solicitors will get busy, and they’ll get some high-brow doctors on the job, and the end of it all will be that they’ll say my brain was unhinged.  I shall spend a few months in a quiet sanatorium, my mental health will improve, the doctors will declare me sane again, and all will end happily for little Julius.  I guess I can bear a few months’ retirement in order to rid the world of you, but don’t you kid yourself I’ll hang for it!”

The Russian believed him.  Corrupt himself, he believed implicitly in the power of money.  He had read of American murder trials running much on the lines indicated by Julius.  He had bought and sold justice himself.  This virile young American, with the significant drawling voice, had the whip hand of him.

“I’m going to count five,” continued Julius, “and I guess, if you let me get past four, you needn’t worry any about Mr. Brown.  Maybe he’ll send some flowers to the funeral, but you won’t smell them!  Are you ready?  I’ll begin.  One—­two three—­four——­”

The Russian interrupted with a shriek: 

“Do not shoot.  I will do all you wish.”

Julius lowered the revolver.

“I thought you’d hear sense.  Where is the girl?”

“At Gatehouse, in Kent.  Astley Priors, the place is called.”

“Is she a prisoner there?”

“She’s not allowed to leave the house—­though it’s safe enough really.  The little fool has lost her memory, curse her!”

“That’s been annoying for you and your friends, I reckon.  What about the other girl, the one you decoyed away over a week ago?”

“She’s there too,” said the Russian sullenly.