40 The Light That Failed and he was as tough as whipcord. This things’ soft all over — like a woman.” There are few things more poignantly humiliating than being handled by a man who does not intend to strike. The head of the syndicate began to breathe heavily. Dick walked round him, pawing him, as a cat paws a soft hearth-rug. Then he traced with his forefinger the leaden pouches underneath the eyes, and shook his head. “You were going to steal my things, — mine, mine, mine! — you, who don’t know when you may die. Write a note to your office, — you say you're the head of it, — and order them to give Torpenhow my sketches, — every one of them. Wait a minute: your hand’s shaking. Now!” He thrust a pocket-book before him. The note was written. Torpenhow took it and departed without a word, while Dick walked round and round the spellbound captive, giving him such advice as he conceived best for the welfare of his soul. When Torpenhow returned with a gigantic portfolio, he heard Dick say, almost soothingly, “Now, I hope this will be a lesson to you; and if you worry me when I have settled down to work with any nonsense about actions for assault, believe me, I’ll catch you and manhandle you, and you'll die. You haven’t very long to live, anyhow. Go! Imshi, Vootsak, — get out!” The man departed, staggering and dazed. Dick drew a long breath: “Phew! what a lawless lot these people are! The first thing a poor orphan meets is gang robbery, organized burglary! Think of the hideous blackness of that man’s mind! Are my sketches all right, Torp?” “Yes; one hundred and forty-seven of them. Well, I must say, Dick, you’ve begun well.” “He was interfering with me. It only meant a few pounds to him, but it was everything to me. I don’t think he’ll bring an action. I gave him some medical advice gratis about the state of his body. It was cheap