The door of the dungeon opened. Frederick Froman, stolid-faced as ever, entered the gloomy room and stared steadily at the man before him. Holtmann, with apparent weakness, raised his head to meet the gaze of his captor.
No words were exchanged for the moment. Froman wore a look of satisfaction, but gave no sign of elation. Holtmann bore the appearance of a beaten man.
A harsh laugh came from Froman. It was filled more with contempt than with ridicule. He seemed to be eyeing his victim’s plight with the air of a connoisseur who had seen many others in the same position.
“If you have suffered,” he remarked coldly, “you have no one to blame except yourself. I offered you the opportunity to escape the agony which you underwent. You chose otherwise. The result was the same. You have spoken.”
Holtmann offered no reply.
“Perhaps,” said Froman dryly, “it will interest you to know that I have already utilized the information which you so kindly gave me. Therefore, I have no further use for you.”
A questioning light appeared in the captive’s eyes. Did these words mean hope or tragedy? Froman saw the question that was in Holtmann’s mind. He smiled.
“You are wondering about your release,” he said quietly. “That, I regret to say, is something which cannot be granted for the present. I suppose that by now the purpose of my actions has dawned upon you.
“There is no reason why I should add hazards to those that already exist. Therefore, I intend to keep you here for a while longer. You shall be my guest while you remain.”
With these words, Froman turned and raised the curtainlike door behind him. A tall henchman appeared, carrying a tray of food. For the first time, interest gleamed in Holtmann’s wearied eyes. The tray was laid upon the floor before him.