“More likely you are Verner himself; and it’s no good wasting eloquence to make you ashamed of yourself.  Nor is it any good to curse you for corrupting England; nor are you the right person to curse.  It is the English who deserve to be cursed, and are cursed, because they allowed such vermin to crawl into the high places of their heroes and their kings.  I won’t dwell on the idea that you’re Verner, or the throttling might begin, after all.  Is there anyone else you could be?  Surely you’re not some servant of the other rival organization.  I can’t believe you’re Gryce, the agent; and yet Gryce had a spark of the fanatic in his eye, too; and men will do extraordinary things in these paltry feuds of politics.  Or if not the servant, is it the . . .  No, I can’t believe it . . . not the red blood of manhood and liberty . . . not the democratic ideal . . .”

He sprang up in excitement, and at the same moment a growl of thunder came through the grating beyond.  The storm had broken, and with it a new light broke on his mind.  There was something else that might happen in a moment.

“Do you know what that means?” he cried.  “It means that God himself may hold a candle to show me your infernal face.”

Then next moment came a crash of thunder; but before the thunder a white light had filled the whole room for a single split second.

Fisher had seen two things in front of him.  One was the black-and-white pattern of the iron grating against the sky; the other was the face in the corner.  It was the face of his brother.

Nothing came from Horne Fisher’s lips except a Christian name, which was followed by a silence more dreadful than the dark.  At last the other figure stirred and sprang up, and the voice of Harry Fisher was heard for the first time in that horrible room.

“You’ve seen me, I suppose,” he said, “and we may as well have a light now.  You could have turned it on at any time, if you’d found the switch.”

He pressed a button in the wall and all the details of that room sprang into something stronger than daylight.  Indeed, the details were so unexpected that for a moment they turned the captive’s rocking mind from the last personal revelation.  The room, so far from being a dungeon cell, was more like a drawing-room, even a lady’s drawing-room, except for some boxes of cigars and bottles of wine that were stacked with books and magazines on a side table.  A second glance showed him that the more masculine fittings were quite recent, and that the more feminine background was quite old.  His eye caught a strip of faded tapestry, which startled him into speech, to the momentary oblivion of bigger matters.

“This place was furnished from the great house,” he said.

“Yes,” replied the other, “and I think you know why.”