When Richard Duvall once more opened his eyes, he saw nothing but a
blinding glare of light, that hurt and bewildered him with its singular
and brilliant intensity. He closed his eyes again at once, unable to
bear the irritation which was thus caused him. It was not exactly pain
that he felt, but an intense discomfort, such as one experiences when
looking directly at the brilliant rays of the sun.
After a few moments spent in futile attempts to cover his eyes with his
hands, only to discover that his arms were tightly bound, he thought to
secure relief by turning his face to one side, so that his vision might
seek the soft darkness which seemed to lie on every side of him. In this
effort he was equally unsuccessful. His head, his neck, his whole body,
were rigid, immovable. He could not stir an inch in any direction.
He spent a long time in useless speculation upon the meaning of the
remarkable situation in which he now found himself. He felt no pain, no
discomfort, except that which the brilliance of the light above him
caused. He determined at length once more to open his eyes, in order to
discover if possible its source.
Even when his eyes were closed, he could see that the strange light
burnt upon them. In a way it rendered his eyelids translucent--he was
conscious of a dull pulsing redness through which shot a network of
lines of fire. He opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and looked upward.
From some point above him, in what he judged must be the ceiling of the
room, extended a beam of violet white light, cutting sharply through the
darkness like the rays of a searchlight. At the opening in the ceiling
through which it came, this beam was in diameter not more than two
inches, but as it extended downward, it widened, taking the form of a
long, thin, truncated cone, so that its width, where it impinged upon
his face, was perhaps equal to twice that of a man's hand.
The darkness of the room about him made the beam of light seem a
tangible, material thing. Its brilliance was unwavering--it extended
from the ceiling to the surface of his face with the solidity, almost,
of some huge, glittering icicle. He felt as though, were his hands but
free, he could brush it aside, fling it off bodily into the darkness.
The effort of looking directly at the source of the light made his eyes
smart with pain, but he found that by half-closing them, he could look
off into the darkness, through the brilliant cone. In the pathway of its
rays danced and tumbled innumerable dust specks--he knew then but for
their presence, to afford the light a reflecting surface, its rays would
be invisible to him.
In color the light was not yellow, like sunlight, but had a cold
violet-blue quality, more nearly resembling moonlight. Its intensity, as
well as the shape of the light cone, made him conclude that it was being
focused through a powerful lens, or projected by means of a brilliant
reflector.
He could imagine no possible reason for the situation in which he found
himself. What the purpose of the beam of light was; why it thus focused
upon his upturned face, he could not guess. He thought about it for many
minutes, his eyes closed, his head straining restlessly toward the soft
outer darkness. Presently there flashed into his mind Dr. Hartmann's
words at their last meeting: "While I know how to cure mental disorders,
I also know how to create them." The thought made him shudder. Was this,
then, the explanation of his predicament? Somewhere he had read, not
long before, a newspaper account of the investigations of certain
Italian scientists, concerning the effect of the violet and ultra-violet
light rays upon the cells of the brain. He could not recollect just what
the conclusions had been, but he did remember that the newspaper article
spoke of the popular superstition that moonlight could cause insanity.
He knew Hartmann to be a scientist of vast ability and resource, and
realized that back of the elaborate preparations he had evidently made
must lie some sinister purpose.
For what seemed an eternity he lay thinking, unable to come to any
rational conclusion. The distressing effect of the light rays increased,
rather than diminished, as his nerves became more and more unstrung. It
seemed, even with, his eyes closed, that he could feel the _weight_ of
the cone of light upon his face. The desire to escape from its searching
glare became well-nigh irresistible. How long would this torture
continue? He began to feel intensely tired and worn out and realized
that could he but shut out the blinding brilliancy which enveloped him,
he would sink exhausted to sleep. Sleep! He could no more sleep, under
the present conditions, than he could fly to the moon. Then there came
to his mind a recollection of a form of torture practised among the
Chinese, the prevention of sleep. Prisoners, he had read, were confined
in a cage, in brilliant sunlight, and prevented from sleeping by being
prodded from without with spears. At the expiration of a week, he had
read, the victim goes raving mad. Was this, then, Hartmann's intention?
Whatever the man did, he knew he would adopt only such methods as would
involve him in no damaging consequences. He might be kept in his present
situation until insanity ensued, and Hartmann with his reputation as a
physician, a scientist, could calmly deny any story he might tell,
putting it down to the wanderings of a disordered brain. He realized the
cunning of the man, his care to use no physical violence. Should he,
Duvall, under the strain of the torture which he realized lay before
him, consent to disclose the whereabouts of the ivory snuff box, in
return for his liberty, what could he do, in retaliation? Hartmann would
calmly deny his story, and would doubtless produce witnesses, such as
Mayer, to prove that the detective came to him for treatment for some
slight mental disorder, some lapse of memory and that the exposure to
the light rays had been but part of his usual treatment. Clearly the
doctor had covered his tracks most successfully.
Throughout all these torturing thoughts, the figure of Grace came and
went unceasingly. What would she do--what could she do, to aid him? He
had warned her not to ask Mr. Phelps to take any steps looking to his
release. He realized that were Hartmann to appear now, and give him his
freedom, he would not dare to accept it. That the doctor might do this
very thing was his greatest fear. If he should insist upon his leaving
the place, what could he do, then, to recover Monsieur de Grissac's
snuff box? He prayed fervently that Dufrenne and his companions might in
some way work out a plan to set matters right.
Presently he fell to thinking of the snuff box, and its safety. How
fortunate it seemed, that the doctor and his man Mayer had overlooked
the opera hat. He wondered if they had thought of it since? It was clear
that they had not, else he would no longer be kept a prisoner. What was
the room beneath the laboratory used for? Its appearance had suggested
that it was not used at all--a mere lumber-room, a place for storing
boxes and crates. And then there flashed into his mind the thought,
where was he now? From the apparent distance of the ceiling, as shown by
the beam of light, he concluded that he was lying on the floor, a
conclusion which the hardness and coldness of the surface beneath him
amply proved. Evidently it was a floor of stone, or cement, not one of
wood. A certain sense of familiarity in his surroundings came over him.
The faint radiance which was diffused about him by the light cone showed
the walls before and on either side of him to be of uniform blackness,
unrelieved by any suggestion of windows. He strove with all his power to
pierce the shadowy gloom, to come upon some point of recognition, but
the darkness baffled him.
In one corner a huge shadow, bulking formless against the wall,
suggested the packing case behind which his opera hat had been tossed by
Mayer during the search the night before. The thought thrilled him with
renewed hope. What more likely place, after all, for Hartmann's
deviltries than this silent room beneath the laboratory? If he was lying
there now, and chance of escape should come, he might even yet be able
to take the missing snuff box with him.
The hours dragged interminably. He was conscious of a keen feeling of
pain, a smarting irritation, in his eyes, which caused tiny streams of
moisture to trickle beneath their lids and roll unheeded down his
cheeks. The muscles of his neck became sore and swollen, from his
incessant though useless effort to turn aside his head. A dull pain
began to shoot insistently through his temples, and his limbs became
numb and cold. The desire to escape from the relentless brilliance of
the light cone became unbearable; he felt as though, if relief did not
soon come, he would shriek out in a madness of terror. Then the
hopelessness of doing so became apparent, and he nerved himself with all
the power of his will to endure the ever-increasing torture. Yet this
torture was, he knew, largely mental--the actual pain was by no means
unbearable; it was only the dull, insistent pounding of the light rays
upon his eyes, his brain, from which he longed to escape. With closed
eyes and tensely drawn nerves, he waited, watching the endless play of
the tracery of light in the dull redness of his eyelids.
The sudden sharp rattle of a key in the door, followed by the turning of
the knob, told him that someone was entering the room. He had a
momentary vision of a patch of light, yellow against the surrounding
blackness, which disappeared almost instantly as the door was closed.
Then he was conscious of a shadowy form beside him, and heard the
smooth, modulated tones of Dr. Hartmann's voice.
"Well, Mr. Duvall," he said, "how goes the treatment? Memory any better
this morning?"
He made no reply. The mockery in the doctor's voice roused him to sudden
and bitter anger.
"I'm trying a new modification of the light treatment upon you,"
Hartmann went on, with a jarring laugh. "Dr. Mentone, of Milan, has
great hopes of it. Wonderful thing, these violet rays! Have you read of
their use in sterilizing milk? No? The subject would interest you. How
is your mind this morning? Somewhat irritated, no doubt. Well, well,
that will soon wear off. You've only been under the treatment six hours.
Scarcely long enough to produce much effect. We'll make it ten, the next
time. It is necessary to increase gradually, in order not to superinduce
insanity." He went to a switch on the wall and pressed it, and instantly
the cone of light disappeared. Another movement, and the room Was
flooded with the yellow glow of an electric lamp, which seemed dingy and
wan, compared with the cold brilliance which it displaced.
The dispelling of darkness brought to Duvall's brain a rush of
sensations, among which the knowledge that he was once more in the
lumber-room beneath the laboratory stood forth with overwhelming
prominence. He glanced at Hartmann with reddened eyes. "Let me up, damn
you!" he shouted.
The doctor bent over him, his face smiling. "Just a moment, Mr. Duvall.
Have a little patience." He began to unbuckle several straps, and
presently stood back, with a wave of his hand. "Get up," he said.
The detective's swollen muscles, his stiffened limbs, still retained the
sensation of being bound; he scarcely realized that his bonds had been
removed. Painfully he crawled to his feet, and stood before the doctor,
blinking, trying to collect his faculties. On the floor lay a number of
broad leather straps, secured to iron rings which had been let into the
cement floor.
His first thought was to make a quick rush at his captor, and after
overpowering him, secure the snuff box and dash from the place. His eyes
must have shown something of his intention, for Hartmann, stepping back
a pace, drew his right hand from his pocket. It contained an
ugly-looking magazine pistol. "Don't attempt anything rash, Mr. Duvall.
It would be useless. Even should you succeed in disposing of me, which I
hardly think possible, you could not get away from my man Mayer, who is
waiting in the corridor outside. Enough of this nonsense," he went on,
scowling. "I mean to be quite frank with you, my friend. I intend to
subject you to this device of mine--" he waved his hand toward the
opening in the ceiling--"until you disclose the whereabouts of the snuff
box. I know it is somewhere near at hand, either here or in Brussels,
for your two assistants, whom I have had released, have been hanging
about the place all the morning. If the violet rays have no other
effect, they will at least prevent you from sleeping, and my experience
shows that loss of sleep, if persisted in, will shatter the best set of
nerves on earth. You know what the effect is, for six hours. The next
time, as I said some little while ago, we shall try ten--and after that,
longer periods, until the process becomes continuous. I am giving you
these brief respites, at first, because I have not the least wish to
drive you mad--all I ask is the snuff box which you took from my
messenger Seltz. Give it up, and you can go at your convenience. But I
must have it--even if I am obliged to drive you to the limit. I advise
you to save yourself much suffering, and give it to me now."
The detective drew back his arm--his fist clenched. The impulse to drive
it into Hartmann's face was overpowering. He turned abruptly on his
heel, and made no reply.
Hartmann waited for a moment, then seeing that his prisoner was not
disposed to answer, went toward the door. "Max," he called, opening it,
"bring in the tray." The attendant at once entered with a waiter
containing food, which he placed on a box near the door. "Is that all?"
he asked. Hartmann nodded and the man withdrew.
"Think the matter over, Mr. Duvall," the doctor remarked, as he stepped
across the threshold of the door. "I shall call upon you again, later in
the day."
Duvall waited until the door had been closed and locked, and the
doctor's footsteps had died away up the iron staircase. He heard them
for a moment, on the floor of the room above, then all was quiet.
In a moment the detective had stepped to the large box in the corner,
behind which lay, he believed, the discarded opera hat. At a glance, he
saw that it was still there. He was about to stoop and pick it up, when
a sudden fear swept over him. Suppose he was being watched. The doctor
was in the room above. The presence in the room of the beam of light
showed clearly that there must be an opening in the ceiling, into the
laboratory. For all he knew, Hartmann might be observing his every
movement. He stopped in his attempt to pick up the hat, and pretended to
be greatly interested in the box and its contents. After making a
careful examination of the labels upon it, he strolled carelessly back
to the other side of the room, and ate the breakfast which the attendant
had left. He supposed it to be breakfast, although he had no realization
of the time. In a moment he felt for his watch, and found that it was
still in his pocket. When he consulted it, however, he saw at once that
it had run down.
After his meal, he began to feel terribly tired and sleepy. At first he
fought off the feeling, realizing that his only hope of freedom lay in
keeping awake, with all his senses alert. Then he thought of the
nerve-racking hours through which he had just passed; the many more
which were likely to follow, and decided that he must have rest at any
cost. He threw himself upon the floor, his head pillowed upon his arm,
and was soon sleeping the deep sleep which follows utter exhaustion.