fool? Do you expect to get anything out of him without squeezing it out?"
East stared down at him, contempt lying close to the surface of his eyes. He nodded at Mapes and Baring.
"Take off his coat and shirt."
They ripped the coat from Dane's body, and shirt and undershirt followed it. Then a belt was looped securely about his wrists and fixed to a hook above the floor. Dane's toes just reached the polished marble.
The secret policeman stock back. East Bayard took a wide-legged stance behind the prisoner. His father moved nervously in the background.
"Where is Jeffrey Anson?" East shot suddenly.
"I don't know."
The buckle whistled through the air. The sound of men catching short breaths was heard. The buckle hit flesh with a solid slap. Blood welled slowly from a rectangle printed deep on one of Dane Cabot's shoulder blades.
Bayard's big arm drew back and the belt sang again. Dane writhed, the muscles of his back twitching. His eyes on the ceiling, he prayed silently for strength to keep his secret, even if it meant only carrying it to the grave.
Again and again the buckle slashed at the helpless man's white skin.
"Where is Anson?"
Dane's teeth sank into his lip, but he made no sound. After a moment East Bayard took off his coat and stood erect in his white silk shirt, perspiration making dark rings beneath his arms. The faces of the Vedette agents grew tense with anticipation.
So for the space of two horrible minutes the belt buckle did its cruel mangling work on Dane's torn back. Blood coursed down the flesh in bright torrents. Once, oddly, Dane thought of Brooke Loring. He wondered if she knew what was happening in here. He was glad she didn't have to watch. At last Bayard stopped, breathing laboredly. Perspiration streaked his face and matted his black hair, plastering his shirt to his chest.
Marcus Baring stepped to Dane's side and tilted a flask of brandy to his lips. Dane drank of it greedily. Bayard spun him around and gripped him by the throat.
"Where is Anson?" he shouted. "Where is the cavern? Who are your confederates?"
A queer croak came from Dane's lips. The Vedette pressed forward eagerly.
"—told you—nothing—to—say!"
Bayard stepped back, his square jaw hardening. He flung the belt into a corner.
"All right, Baring," he breathed. "Bring the salt—"
Baring stepped into an anteroom and came back with a sack of salt. Bayard took it and his hand dug up a handful of white crystals. Without a word, he flung it onto Dane's quivering back.
For Dane, there was one ghastly moment of exquisite agony, and then blackness closed about him.
CHAPTER V
"Tomorrow You Die!"
WHEN Dane came to, he was lying face down on a cot, his back covered with a thick layer of some soothing jelly. A burning pain suffused his whole being. He was afraid to move for fear of bringing on worse agony.
But through his misery coursed a clear stream of triumph. They hadn't got it out of him! Maybe he was basing all his satisfaction on the dream of a man who was dead these fifteen years, and a million souls who had never lived. But he was being true to that dream. His only regret was the fear that they
