Instantly, the young man was alert. He rose from the bed and moved stealthily toward the window. He raised the sash and thrust his hand out toward what appeared to be black night.
Instead of space, his fist encountered a solid barrier.
The window was barricaded with an iron shutter!
Stuart waited. At last, sure that no one could be listening in the hall, he went to the door and tried it, There was no yielding. The door had been solidly locked from the outside. Stuart sat upon the bed and thought, amidst impenetrable darkness. He was a prisoner, here in this strange house. The two men who watched him were murderers. Their next crime might be his death, tomorrow!
Tomorrow?
Stuart wondered if he would ever see the dawn of another morning. His life was hanging in the balance. He was alone and helpless, without friends. There was nothing to do but wait.
Would his pretense of false identity prove his salvation? Perhaps, for the time. But the respite could be no more than temporary.
The one vital thought that governed Stuart Bruxton's mind was the recollection of that upturned face — the face of the murdered man in the car.
Stuart was to have been the victim of that crime! His life had been spared, but only for the moment. Death was the lot intended for him now.
With hope struggling against these fearful thoughts, the prisoner stretched himself on the bed and fell into a restless slumber.