THE TEST
Pawter looked at the phosphorescent dial of his watch and with some
difficulty returned it to his pocket, for the handcuffs about his
wrists were of a type that he had never seen before. He suspected that
they had been found in the monastery, and remembered the Grand Prior
telling him, many years before, that he had discovered a cell
evidently used to incarcerate monks who had lost their reason. He was
probably in that prison house now.
What would they do with him? Would the purple-veiled Prior carry his
threat into execution? It was more than an hour since the man had
taken his departure, and there had been no sign or sound of him.
There were two doors in the small stone room in which he was held
prisoner, and in spite of his bound ankles he had succeeded in hopping
to both, to find, as he had expected, that they were locked. He had
scarcely put away his watch before he heard the shooting of bolts, the
door opened and the purple man came in, carrying a candle lantern,
which he placed on the floor. By its side he put a flat metal case,
which he opened, and Pawter saw, with some astonishment, that his
captor literally intended to fulfil his threat, for he took out a
diminutive spirit stove and a pair of steel tongs.
He struck a match, and the stove burnt bluely. Then, laying the tongs
on two projecting brackets, he watched the steady flame curl about the
steel.
“It will take a little time before they are hot enough,” said the
voice, “time for you to reflect, my friend.”
He went out of the room and returned with the coat which Pawter had
taken off when he had put on his robe.
“Our good friend Blackwood was curious as to where you had gone.” He
mentioned the fact casually.
“What are you going to do?” There was no tremor in Pawter’s voice
when he put the question. And then:
“Hurt you,” was the calm reply, “hurt you so badly that you will do
as I wish.”
“In other words, you’re going to revert to the practice of the Middle
Ages, eh?” Pawter was calm, almost bland. “It has been a wonder to me
how these ancient folk endured torture, and now I’m going to discover
for myself!”
“That is exactly what will happen,” said the mask. “You have lived a
fairly comfortable life, Mr. Pawter, maintained yourself free from
aches and pains, and I doubt very much whether you can imagine what
will happen when real pain, comes to you.”
“I can imagine a whole lot of things,” said Pawter, watching the blue
flame of the spirit lamp, “but I can’t imagine making myself a party
to your fraud by signing those cheques.”
The Prior lifted the tongs, held them near to his face, and put them
back again in the flames.
“Not hot enough yet,” he said pleasantly. “Pawter, you’re a fool. I
am willing to pay you a very considerable sum for your services, and
to continue that payment every half-year. You would be a rich man in
five years’ time.”
“I’m a rich man now,” said the other easily, “and if I did what you
ask me, my riches would weight me down and crush me.”
At the end of five minutes, during which time neither man spoke, the
Prior lifted the tongs.
“They are hot,” he said, and brought them near to Pawter’s face, but
the bald man did not shrink.
Nearer and nearer, until the heat was intolerable, and yet, with an
unbelievable stoicism, he sat rigid, unmoving.
“Not pleasant, eh? Imagine them held to your eyelids--that makes you
feel bad? Listen.” The spurious amiability left his voice. “There’s
nothing I will not do to make you carry out my wishes. I’ll blind
you--do you understand that? I’ll shut off from you the chief joy of
life--your vision! Am I to be checked at the moment of my success by a
dog of a tradesman?”
His voice rose shrilly, the hands that held the tongs were trembling.
“At the very edge of fortune, shall I hesitate----”
_Rap, rap, rap._
Somebody was knocking at the door. He half turned.
“Who’s there?” he called.
_Rap, rap, rap!_
“Who is it?” The man in purple almost screamed the question.
“Open, in the name of the King!” said a voice on the other side of
the door--the voice of Inspector Bullott!