The three stood close behind him as Mike inserted the key, and opened the door.  It was already growing dusk without, and the tightly closed room, with shade drawn at the single window, was so dark that West could scarcely discern its shape and contents.  Mike, without hesitation, stepped within, his great bulk blotting out whatever view there was.

“Come right in, gents,” he insisted.  “Von minute, an’ I turn on the light.”

West never understood why he responded so recklessly to this invitation, and advanced without hesitation.  He had no suspicion of any trick, no conception of being in any danger.  He stepped in directly behind the leader, and Sexton followed.  An instant later, the door closed, with the sharp click of a night latch, and Mike flashed on the light.  As he did so, he wheeled about, and shot one mighty clinched fist straight into West’s face.  This was done so suddenly, so unexpectedly, the man attacked found no opportunity to even throw up a hand in self-defence.  The giant Pole flung his whole weight into the crashing blow, and the ex-soldier went down as though struck by a pole-ax.  For an instant, he realized that Sexton was in a fierce struggle; that his assailant stood poised above him ready to land again if he moved; then consciousness left him entirely.

He woke up, sitting in a chair, his hands bound to the arms with strips of cloth.  For a moment everything about seemed tinged with yellow, the various objects in sight vague and shapeless.  It hurt him to move his head, and his mind functioned dully.  He could not think, or bring back to memory a recollection of what had occurred.  Yet slowly the mist cleared and the objects about him assumed natural form.  He was in a room of some size—­not the one in which he had been attacked he felt sure—­fitted up with a long table, and a number of chairs.  There was no other furniture; the walls were bare, and only a small rag rug partially covered the floor.  At first he perceived no other occupants; only as, painfully, he finally twisted his head to the right, his eyes distinguished two men seated against the wall.  The sight of their faces restored instantly his memory of what had occurred.  The Pole rested back, with feet on the table and eyes closed, but the other—­the younger man—­was watching him closely, an unlighted cigar gripped in his teeth.

“So, you’ve come out of it,” the latter said unpleasantly.  “I’d begun to think Mike had handed you a real knock-out that time.  Ready to answer a few questions?”

West, his brain clearing rapidly, sat up straighter in the chair, determined to play out his part the best he could.

“Perfectly ready,” he replied struggling to control his voice.  “Only I should like to know what all this means?  Why attack me?”

“You’ll find that out soon enough, Captain; but first I’ll do the questioning.”

“Not until I know one thing, at least—­what has become of the man who was with me?”