“It takes you,” he said, “to rush in where angels fear to tread.  Welcome to my parlor!  What a fool!  My God!  You heard what Harry West had to say before he died, and you came straight here.”

“I don’t know how you know it.  But I did talk to your son.  I did hear what he said.  And I came here to tell you.  And to tell you that there will be no more dealings between us.  I am going straight from here to tell the proper authorities what I know.”

“Aren’t you going to punch my face first?  That’s what you’d like to do.  It’s in your eyes.  But you’re afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” said Wilmot, “and you know it.”

For answer the legless man picked up a silver dollar from among the papers in front of him, and broke it savagely into four pieces.  “Afraid!” he said.  “Afraid!  Afraid!”

Wilmot took a step forward.  “It would give me the greatest pleasure,” he said quietly, “to knock your head off.  Unfortunately you are a cripple.”

Blizzard said nothing, and presently, white with anger and contempt, Wilmot turned and tried the handle of the door by which he had entered.  Blizzard laughed.

[Illustration “Climb out of that chair, and let me out of this house”]

“This door is locked,” said Wilmot.

“You are a prisoner in this house.”

“I am, am I?”

Quick as lightning he had drawn and levelled at the legless man an automatic pistol of the largest calibre.  The legless man did not move an inch, change expression, or take his eyes from Wilmot’s.

Wilmot advanced till only the table separated them.  “You will,” he said, “climb out of that chair, and let me out of this house, walking in front of me.”

The legless beggar appeared to consider the matter.  There was silence.  Wilmot shifted the position of his feet, and the floor boards under them creaked.

Blizzard appeared to have made up his mind.  He spread his hands on the table as if to help himself out of his chair.  The palm of his right hand, unknown to Wilmot, covered an electric push-button.

“Perhaps,” said Blizzard, “you won’t be in such a hurry to go after you hear that Miss Barbara Ferris is also a prisoner in this house—­”

In horror and bewilderment Wilmot allowed the muzzle of his automatic to swerve.  In that moment the palm of the legless man’s right hand pressed upon the button, and the square of the floor upon which Wilmot stood dropped like the trap of a gallows, and he fell through the opening into darkness.

He was neither stunned nor bruised, and he began to grope about for the pistol which in the sudden descent had been knocked from his hand.  The only light came from the open trap in the floor above.  Something fell softly at his feet; he picked it up.  It was a cloth, saturated with chloroform.  He flung it from him, and began with a new haste to grope and fumble for his pistol.

Another cloth fell, and another.  Distant and ugly laughter fell with them.  More cloths, and already the air in the place reeked with chloroform.