sodden lump of inanimate human flesh. And
Nikky, whose business, in a way, was killing; was horrified.

He tried to find the pulse, but failed--which was not surprising, since
he had the wrong side of the wrist. Then the unconscious man groaned.
For a moment, as he stood over him, Nikky reflected that he was having
rather a murderous night of it.

The chauffeur wakened, ten minutes later, to find himself securely
tied with his own towing rope, and lying extremely close to the edge of
death. Beside him on the ground sat a steady-eyed young man with a cut
lip. The young man had lighted a cigarette, and was placing it carefully
in the uninjured side of his mouth.

"Just as soon as you are up to it," said Nikky, "we shall have a little
talk."

The chauffeur muttered something in the peasant patois of Karnia.

"Come, come!" Nikky observed. "Speak up. No hiding behind strange
tongues. But first, I have the letter. That saves your worrying about
it. You can clear your mind for action." Suddenly Nikky dropped his
mocking tone. To be quite frank, now that the man was not dead, and
Nikky had the letter, he rather fancied himself. But make no mistake--he
was in earnest, grim and deadly earnest.

"I have a fancy, my friend," he said, "to take that letter of yours on
to its destination. But what that destination is, you are to tell me."

The man on the ground grinned sardonically. "You know better than to ask
that," he said. "I will never tell you."

Nikky had thought things out fairly well, for him, in that ten minutes.
In a business-like fashion he turned the prostrate prisoner on his side,
so that he faced toward the chasm. A late moon showed its depth, and the
valley in which the Ar flowed swiftly. And having thus faced him toward
the next world, Nikky, throwing away his cigarette because it hurt
his lip, put a stone or two from the roadway behind his prisoner, and
anchored him there. Then he sat down and waited. Except that his ears
were burning, he was very calm.

"Any news?" he asked, at the end of ten minutes' unbroken silence.

His--prisoner said nothing. He was thinking, doubtless. Weighing things,
too,--perhaps life against betrayal, a family against separation.

Nikky examined the letter again. It was addressed to a border town in
Livonia. But the town lay far behind them. The address, then, was a
false one. He whistled softly. He was not, as a fact, as calm as he
looked. He had never thrown a man over a prec