Kronberg bit his lip and shuddered.  His fear of the grim young guard behind him had been subtly aggravated by the desolation of his destined jail.

Halting in the doorway of an inner room, Carl held the light high and nodded with approval.

Its dim rays fell upon dust and cobwebs, trunks and the nondescript relics of years of hoarding.  There were no windows; only a skylight above clouded by the whirl of the storm.

Carl seated himself upon a trunk, placed the lamp beside him and directed his guest to a point opposite.  Kronberg, with dark, fascinated eyes glued upon the glittering steel in his jailer’s hand, obeyed.

“Kronberg,” said Carl coldly, “there’s a lot I want to know.  Moreover, I’m going to know it.  Nor shall I trust to drunken jailers as I did a while back with a certain compatriot of yours.  Late last spring when you sought employment at my cousin’s town-house, you were already, I presume, a link in the chain.  If my memory serves me correctly, you were dismissed after ten days of service, through no fault of your own.  The house was closed for the summer.  You came to me again this fall with a letter of recommendation from Mrs. Westfall.  Knowing my aunt,” reflected Carl dryly, “that is really very humorous.  What were you doing in the meantime?”

Carl shifted the lamp that its pale fan of light might fall full upon the other’s face.

“Let me tell you—­do!” said he.  “For I’m sure I know.  During the summer, my dear Kronberg, I was the victim of a series of peculiar and persistent attacks.  To a growing habit of unremitting vigilance and suspicion, I may thank my life.  As for the peaceful monotony of the last nine weeks, doubtless I may attribute that to the constant companionship of Wherry, the fact that you were much too unpopular with the Carmodys as a foreigner to find an opportunity of poisoning my food, and that I’ve fallen into the discreet and careful habit of always drinking from a fresh bottle, properly sealed.  There was a chance even there, but you were not clever enough to take it.  You’re overcautious and a coward.  But how busy you must have been before that,” he purred solicitously, “bolting about in various disguises after me.  How very patient!  Dear, dear, if Nature had only given you brains enough to match your lack of scruples—­”

The insolent purr of his musical voice whipped color into Kronberg’s cheeks.  Abruptly he shifted his position and glared stonily.

“Venice,” murmured Carl impudently, “Venice called them bravi; here in America we brutally call them gun-men, but honestly, Kronberg, in all respect and confidence, you really haven’t brains and originality enough for a clever professional murderer.  Amateurish killing is a sickly sort of sport.  And the danger of it!  Take for instance that night when you fancied you were a motor bandit and waylaid me on the way to the farm.  I was very drunk and driving madly and I nearly got you.  A pretty to-do that would have been!  To be killed by an amateur and you a paid professional!  My!  My!  Kronberg, I blush for you.  I really do!”