The speaker, as the half-fainting Corrie perceived in the light of a portable lamp, which some one had placed on the counter, was accompanied by three men, two of them in the garb of mechanics. The third he recognized as the person recently inquiring about Kitty.
“What do ye want wi’ me?” he whimpered.
“Where is your sister?” asked Risk.
“In her bed. She’s ill.”
“Then we shall do nothing to disturb her, and you had better follow our example. West, find a chair, and put him on it—over at the door.” He indicated the exit to the dwelling-house.
Near the opposite end of the shop, which was fairly spacious, the mechanics were already busy. On rubber-shod feet they made scarce a sound. Within the space of a few minutes they had rigged up a framework, about nine feet square, and stretched a white screen upon it. Risk unpacked the contents of a box of polished wood, while West kept guard on the prisoner.
At last, with a show of courage, Corrie demanded: “What daft-like performance is this? A magic lantern—”
Risk came quickly behind him. “We’re going to show you a few pictures, Corrie,” he said pleasantly, “and afterwards we shall be glad to hear how they strike you. Meantime I’m going to gag you—keep still, it won’t hurt.”
At the end of ten minutes one of the men murmured, “All ready, sir,” to which Risk replied, “Wait till I give the word,” and stationed himself where he could watch every movement on Corrie’s part. The lamp was put out, but through the blinded windows a little moonlight filtered, giving a ghostly touch to the man in the chair.
“Number one,” said Risk softly.