n America we brutally call them gun-men, but honestly, Kronberg,
in all respect and confidence, you really haven't brains and
originality enough for a clever professional murderer. Amateurish
killing is a sickly sort of sport. And the danger of it! Take for
instance that night when you fancied you were a motor bandit and
waylaid me on the way to the farm. I was very drunk and driving madly
and I nearly got you. A pretty to-do that would have been! To be
killed by an amateur and you a paid professional! My! My! Kronberg,
I blush for you. I really do!"

He rose smiling, though his eyes were dangerously brilliant.

"Just when," said he lazily, "did you steal the paper I found in the
candlestick? It's gone--"

He had struck fire from the stone man at last. A hopeless, hunted look
flamed up in Kronberg's eyes and died away.

"Ah!" guessed Carl keenly, "so you're in some muddle there, too, eh?"
Kronberg stared sullenly at the dusty floor.

"A silence strike?" inquired Carl. "Well we'll see how you feel about
that in the morning. As for the skylight, Kronberg, if you feel like
skating down an icy roof to hell, try it."

Whistling softly, Carl backed to the door and disappeared. An instant
later came the click of a key in the lock. He had taken the lamp with
him.

Groping desperately about, Kronberg searched for some covering to
protect him from the icy cold. His search was unsuccessful. When the
skylight grayed at dawn, he was pacing the floor, white and shaking
with the chill.

CHAPTER XXVI

AN ACCOUNTING

The key clicked in the lock. Kronberg, huddled in a corner, stirred
and cunningly hid the flimsy coverings of chintz he had unearthed from
an ancient trunk. For three days he had not spoken, three days of
bitter, biting cold, three days of creaking, lonely quiet, of mournful
wind and shifting lights above the glass overhead, of infernal
visitations from one he had grown to fear more than death itself. With
heavy chills racking his numb body, with flashes of fever and clamping
pains in his head, his endurance was now nearing an end.

Bearing a tray of food, Carl entered and closed the door.

"I'm still waiting, Kronberg," he reminded coolly, "for the answers to
those questions."

For answer Kronberg merely pushed aside the tray of food with a
shudder. There was a dreadful nausea to-day in the pit of his stomach.

"So?" said Carl. "Well," he regretted, "there are always the finge