My captor remained for a moment under the light, peering at me in silence. He seemed to be a man of about sixty—a thin, frail man with white hair and a sharp, deeply lined face. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, behind which a pair of hard grey eyes gleamed at me in malicious amusement.
At last he took a step forward, still holding the revolver in his hand.
"A stranger!" he observed. "Dear me—what a disappointment! I hope Mr.
Latimer is not ill?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, but his voice sounded very far away.
"If you keep me standing like this much longer," I managed to jerk out, "I shall most certainly faint."
I saw him raise his eyebrows in a sort of half-mocking smile.
"Indeed," he said, "I thought—"
What he thought I never heard, for the whole room suddenly went dim, and with a quick lurch the floor seemed to get up and spin round beneath my feet. I suppose I must have pitched forward, for the last thing I remember is clutching wildly but vainly at the corner of the kitchen table.
* * * * *
My first sensation on coming round was a burning feeling in my lips and throat. Then I suddenly realized that my mouth was full of brandy, and with a surprised gulp I swallowed it down and opened my eyes.