Jimmie Dale glanced from the tall, straight, immaculately clothed figure of the speaker, from the threatening smile on the set lips that just showed under the edge of the mask, to the dead man in the chair.  He had faced the prospect of death before many times, but it had come with the heat of passion accompanying it, it had come quickly, abruptly, with every faculty called into action to combat it, without time to dwell upon it, to sift, weigh, or measure its meaning, and if there had been fear it had been subordinate to other emotions.  But it was different now.  He could not, of course, answer those questions; nor, he was doggedly conscious, would he have answered them if he could—­and there was no middle course.

Death, within the next few moments, stared him in the face; and it seemed curiously irrelevant that, in a sort of unnatural calmness, he should be attempting to analyse his feelings and emotions concerning it.  All his life it had seemed to him that the acme of human mental torture was the cell of a condemned criminal, with the horror of its hopelessness, with the time to dwell upon it; and that the acme of that torture itself must be that awful moment immediately preceding execution, when anticipation at last was to merge into soul-sickening reality.

Strange that thought should come!  Strange that he should be framing a brain picture of such a scene, vivid, minute in detail!  No—­not strange.  He was picturing himself.  The analogy was not perfect, it was true, he had not had the months, weeks, days and hours of suspense; but it was perfect enough to bring home to him with appalling force the realisation of his position.  He was standing as a condemned man might stand in those last, final moments, those moments which he had imagined must be the most terrible that could exist in life; but that dismay of soul, the horror, the terror were not his—­there was, instead, a smouldering fury, a passionate amazement that it was his own life that was threatened.  It seemed impossible that it could be his voice that was speaking now in such quiet, measured tones.

“Is it worth while, will it convince you now, any more than before, to repeat that there is some mistake here?  I am no more able to answer your questions than you are yourselves.  I never saw that man in the chair there in my life until the moment that I hailed him in his cab to-night.  I do not know who the woman is to whom that ring belongs, much less do I know where she is.  And if there was a package of any sort in the taxicab, as you state, I never saw it.”

The lips under the mask curved into a lupine smile.

“Think well, Mr. Dale!” The man’s voice was low, menacing.  “Ethically, if you so choose to consider it, your refusal may be the act of a brave man; practically, it is the act of—­a fool.  Now—­your answer!”

“I have answered you,” said Jimmie Dale—­and, relaxing the muscles in his arms, let them hang limply for an instant in the grip of the two men behind him.  “I have no other answer.”