Perhaps an inkling of his

secret had somehow got into their minds. They had been watching him for

days past. They had become suspicious.

Clearly, he must act now, or let the opportunity slip by perhaps for

ever. He heard Thorpe’s voice in his ear, but this time it was no mere

whisper, but a plain human voice, speaking out loud.

“Now!” it said. “Do it now!”

The room was empty. Only the Manager and himself were in it.

Jones turned from his desk where he had been standing, and locked

the door leading into the main office. He saw the army of clerks

scribbling in their shirt-sleeves, for the upper half of the door was

of glass. He had perfect control of himself, and his heart was beating

steadily.

The Manager, hearing the key turn in the lock, looked up sharply.

“What’s that you’re doing?” he asked quickly.

“Only locking the door, sir,” replied the secretary in a quite even

voice.

“Why? Who told you to—?”

“The voice of Justice, sir,” replied Jones, looking steadily into

the hated face.

The Manager looked black for a moment, and stared angrily across the

room at him. Then suddenly his expression changed as he stared, and he

tried to smile. It was meant to be a kind smile evidently, but it only

succeeded in being frightened.

“That is a good idea in this weather,” he said lightly, “but

it would be much better to lock it on the outside, wouldn’t it,

Mr. Jones?”

“I think not, sir. You might escape me then. Now you can’t.”

Jones took his pistol out and pointed it at the other’s face. Down

the barrel he saw the features of the tall dark man, evil and sinister.

Then the outline trembled a little and the face of the Manager slipped

back into its place. It was white as death, and shining with

perspiration.

“You tortured me to death four hundred years ago,” said the clerk in

the same steady voice, “and now the dispensers of justice have chosen

me to punish you.”

The Manager’s face turned to flame, and then back to chalk again. He

made a quick movement towards the telephone bell, stretching out a hand

to reach it, but at the same moment Jones pulled the trigger and the

wrist was shattered, splashing the wall behind with blood.

“That’s one place where the chains burnt,” he said quietly to

himself. His hand was absolutely steady, and he felt that he was a

hero.

The Manager was on his feet, with a scream of pain, supporting

himself with his right hand on the desk in front of him, but Jones

pressed the trigger again, and a bullet flew into the other wrist, so

that the big man, deprived of support, fell forward with a crash on to

the desk.

“You damned madman!” shrieked the Manager. “Drop that pistol!”

“That’s another place,” was all Jones said, still taking

careful aim for another shot.

The big man, screaming and blundering, scrambled beneath the desk,

making frantic efforts to hide, but the secretary took a step forward

and fired two shots in quick succession into his projecting legs,

hitting first one ankle and then the other, and smashing them horribly.

“Two more places where the chains burnt,” he said, going a little

nearer.

The Manager, still shrieking, tried desperately to squeeze his bulk

behind the shelter of the opening beneath the desk, but he was far too

large, and his bald head protruded through on the other side. Jones

caught him by the scruff of his great neck and dragged him yelping out

on to the carpet. He was covered with blood, and flopped helplessly

upon his broken wrists.

“Be quick now!” cried the voice of Thorpe.

There was a tremendous commotion and banging at the door, and Jones

gripped his pistol tightly. Something seemed to crash through his

brain, clearing it for a second, so that he thought he saw beside him a

great veiled figure, with drawn sword and flaming eyes, and sternly

approving attitude.

“Remember the eyes! Remember the eyes!” hissed Thorpe in the air

above him.

Jones felt like a god, with a god’s power. Vengeance disappeared

from his mind. He was acting impersonally as an instrument in the hands

of the Invisibles who dispense justice and balance accounts. He bent

down and put the barrel close into the other’s face, smiling a little

as he saw the childish efforts of the arms to cover his head. Then he

pulled the trigger, and a bullet went straight into the right eye,

blackening the skin. Moving the pistol two inches the other way, he

sent another bullet crashing into the left eye. Then he stood upright

over his victim with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

The Manager wriggled convulsively for the space of a single second,

and then lay still in death.

There was not a moment to lose, for the door was already broken in

and violent hands were at his neck. Jones put the pistol to his temple

and once more pressed the trigger with his finger.

But this time there was no report. Only a little dead click answered

the pressure, for the secretary had forgotten that the pistol had only

six chambers, and that he had used them all. He threw the useless

weapon on to the floor, laughing a little out loud, and turned, without

a struggle, to give himself up.

“I had to do it,” he said quietly, while they tied him.