"You're making some terrible mistake. I know nothing about it, on my honour."
"Your what?" Colin laughed unpleasantly. "I don't know if you're really under the impression that you can bluff this out, Medwin, but if you are, you're making the mistake of your life."
He put his hand in his pocket, and, pulling out a coil of whipcord, which he had stopped to purchase on his way down, tossed it across to Joe.
"Lay him on the sofa," he said, "and tie up his feet and hands. If he makes the slightest sound, give him a punch in the mouth."
Joe moved forward with alacrity, and, turning to the fireplace, Colin picked up a small ornamental poker which was standing against the hearth, and thrust it deliberately into the hottest part of the fire. Then, lighting himself a cigarette, he stood looking on in silence, while with swift efficiency Joe proceeded to carry out his instructions.
"That will do," he observed at last, "Now, Medwin, you can take your choice. You will either tell me at once where Miss Seymour is, or else I shall burn the truth out of you with that poker."
Trussed and helpless, Medwin gazed across at him from the sofa.
"For God's sake think what you're doing," he whispered. "Can't you see that the whole thing's a ghastly blunder? I swear to you on my oath that I have never even heard of either of the people you have mentioned."
"In that case," said Colin, "it's rather curious that you keep a photograph of Fenton on your dining room mantelpiece."
He stooped down, and, drawing out the poker which was now a glowing red, advanced relentlessly toward the sofa.