Harry Vincent was sitting on a chair in the corner of a dingy room. His left wrist was locked to a ring in the wall, by means of a pair of handcuffs.
He had been in this unpleasant situation for forty-eight hours. His captor had locked him up, and had placed him on a cot.
In the morning, a chair had been substituted for the cot. Harry had received meals; the cot had replaced the chair for the second night.
Now another day had ended. Soon the mysterious man who had captured him would be back again, and Harry would be transferred to the cot.
This was a monotonous life. Harry had said very little to his captor. The man, in turn, had spoken only a few words.
While Harry was musing thus, the door of the room opened, and the man entered.
He was short and heavy-set. He wore a thick black mustache. His eyes were sharp and suspicious. His dark complexion gave him a villainous appearance.
Harry wondered that he had not received harsher treatment from this relentless-looking fellow. The captor seemed like a man who was used to nightly prowls. He was attired in dark suit and hat.
Harry had thought a lot about the situation. He had decided that his captor was the outside man of the crew who were operating at Blair Windsor’s place; but he had not guessed their object.
The dark-visaged man looked at Harry Vincent, and his eyes were not kindly. He sat on a battered chair on the other side of the room. The single oil lamp showed his features plainly.