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.