THE GRAND PRIOR SHOWS HIS HAND
“What does this mean?”
“It means that you are going to sign five cheques,” was the suave
reply. “Or that you will not leave the Priory alive.”
Slowly Pawter took off his robe, dropped it on the ground, and thrust
his hands into his pockets. Bald, middle-aged, a creature of commerce,
he had in him a something which brought a clearer light to his eye and
a more determined thrust to his jaw.
“I’ll sign nothing,” he said. “You are not Leiff Stone!”
Then, before the other realised what he was doing, Pawter had leapt at
the man with the pistol. One hand had gripped the wrist, the other was
clawing at the mask on the face, when something struck him and he went
down in a heap.
When he came to himself, he was sitting in a smaller and even darker
room, on a stone bench. Whatever ventilation there was came through a
small grating which showed no light. His wrists were fastened with
handcuffs, his ankles were strapped, and somebody was holding him in
the angle of the wall.
“Wake up.”
He looked stupidly at the purple cowl.
“You’re not Leiff Stone,” he said drowsily.
“You will be a sensible man and sign the cheques,” was the reply.
The Grand Prior was alone, but the heavy door was ajar, and Pawter saw
the shadow of a second man in the adjoining room.
“We may have to keep you here for a few days, but I swear that you’ll
come to no harm if you’ll do as you’re told.”
“I’ll sign no cheques,” said the other doggedly, “and I warn you
that, if you attempt to forge my name, you will be instantly detected.
The Prior and I agreed upon a secret marking to every cheque that the
bank manager knows. If you’re the Prior, you will know what that is.”
For a second the man was taken aback.
“I know everything,” he said, and then unexpectedly left the room,
slamming the door behind him, leaving his prisoner in darkness.
It must have been two hours before he returned. He brought back with
him a jug of water, poured out a glassful, and the prisoner drank
eagerly.
“Now, Mr. Pawter, you will be a wise man if you will do as I ask. I
know the secret mark--a dot under the vowel of every recipient’s name.
You are mistaken in thinking that I am not Stone. There is a special
reason, which is no business of yours, why I wish to reward these
brethren of the Order for their services. There has been a great deal
of unrest amongst the brethren, complaints that certain lodges have
been favoured at the expense of others. I am merely distributing the
argosies over a wider area.”
“You do not need a gun for that purpose. Anyway, Prior, I would not
have done this thing. You employed me as an auditor for my honesty,
and I will not be a party to any crooked practice that you suggest.
Bring me the discs and the books, and I will sign the cheques.”
Again the purple man went out and came back with ten discs, which he
laid on the bench by the side of Pawter.
“Here they are,” he said. “I will bring you the books----”
“Save yourself the trouble,” said Pawter coldly. “These are not the
discs I drew. I have a pretty good head for figures, and I could not
possibly have made a mistake. I presume that these discs correspond
with the names of the people you wish me to draw the cheques for, and
I flatly refuse.”
“We will try another method,” said the purple man softly. “There is
such a thing as pain. If you were a member of the Twenty-Third Degree,
you would realise that pain, hunger and thirst are three of the most
potent factors in determining human comfort. I will not put you on the
rack, or introduce you to The Maiden, Mr. Pawter. A pair of mundane
curling tongs such as a wench may use to fringe her hair, heated by a
spirit lamp, are quite as painful as any hot iron that might be drawn
from a brazier and applied to your eyes! That makes you quiver, my
friend! Believe me, I shall not hesitate to go to extreme lengths. Now
what do you say?”
“I refuse.”
“Very well.” The voice came almost in a whisper. “You have brought
this upon your own head!”