They did so. Hugh glared at them.
“Go on,” he gasped. “You murdered the professor. Murder me too.”
“I think we’ll get what we want out of you without that,” said Vulning. “Close that window, Bob. He’ll probably scream. Charlot, you know your job.”
What were they going to do? Hugh’s eyes followed them fearfully. He watched Bob Bender go to the window and remain some moments fumbling at the latch. He saw the villainous-faced chauffeur leave the room and return with a pair of powerful pincers in his hand. Meanwhile Paul Vulning sat down on the edge of the table and inhaled his cigarette. He was evidently enjoying the scene and proposed to play with his victim as a cat does with a mouse. Well, Hugh resolved, he would not cry out whatever happened. At least Vulning should not get that satisfaction from him.
The chauffeur caught Hugh’s hand, and, gripping the end of his thumb with the pincers, began to squeeze. Hugh felt the nail crack. The pain was excruciating. His breath came quick; his eyes started from his head. He choked back his groan of agony. Vulning was grinning now, the grin of a devil. It was that grin that nerved Hugh; not a sound passed his lips.
“Harder yet,” hissed Vulning. “Make him scream. Begin on another finger. Get a good grip. Squeeze! Remember, there are ten of them.”
He was carried away by a passion of cruelty and trembled with a strange joy as he watched Hugh’s face. The pain was so atrocious that Hugh almost fainted. Never mind! They should not make him give in. They should kill him first.
“Here, let me do it,” said Vulning. “You’re too easy.”
Hugh felt his nail bursting under the continued pressure. He closed his eyes. His breath came in long gasps....
Then suddenly in that tense and thrilling silence he heard a voice ringing out, high, harsh, metallic: