“Remember,” were the words, “you have your choice. You may answer all questions if you choose. Otherwise — death!”
As the final verdict was uttered, the steel door descended. It obscured the figure of the man in the robe.
The inquisitor was gone. Harry Vincent was again alone!
OUTSIDE the room, the man in the dark gown confronted another figure as sinister as himself. His companion was a veritable giant — a man whose grim, white face seemed deathlike in the gloom of a dimly-lighted passage.
This man was dressed in black. His features were sullen and determined. His eyes were dull and expressionless. He was a brute type, possessed of tremendous strength, but who seemed governed by a willingness to obey one master.
He was a modern survival of the medieval executioners who dwelt in obscurity, abhorred by the neighbors, and who only faced the public when called upon to wield the ax of death.
“Bron,” said the man in the robe, “remain here until the end. Do not leave this post.”
The grim-visaged executioner bowed his head in acknowledgment of the instructions.
“Should he signal,” continued the man in the robe, “send word to me. If I do not respond, let the death go on.”
Again a nod was the answer.