“You see, this floor on which you are standing is made of metal, and here and there on its surface are little projections. I touch a switch—so.” A sharp click sounded. “Now the electric current is switched on. To tread on one of those little knobs now means—death! You understand? If you could see … but you cannot see. You are in the dark. That is the game—Blindman’s Buff with death. If you can reach the door in safety—freedom! But I think that long before you reach it you will have trodden on one of the danger spots. And that will be very amusing—for me!”
He came forward and unbound Tommy’s hands. Then he handed him his cane with a little ironical bow.
“The blind Problemist. Let us see if he will solve this problem. I shall stand here with my pistol ready. If you raise your hands to your head to remove that eyeshade, I shoot. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear,” said Tommy. He was rather pale, but determined. “I haven’t got a dog’s chance, I suppose?”
“Oh! that—” the other shrugged his shoulders.
“Damned ingenious devil, aren’t you?” said Tommy. “But you’ve forgotten one thing. May I light a cigarette, by the way? My poor little heart’s going pit a pat.”
“You may light a cigarette—but no tricks. I am watching you, remember, with the pistol ready.”
“I’m not a performing dog,” said Tommy. “I don’t do tricks.” He extracted a cigarette from his case, then felt for a match box. “It’s all right. I’m not feeling for a revolver. But you know well enough that I’m not armed. All the same, as I said before, you’ve forgotten one thing.”
“What is that?”
Tommy took a match from the box, and held it ready to strike.