Bearing a tray of food, Carl entered and closed the door.
"I'm still waiting, Kronberg," he reminded coolly, "for the answers to
those questions."
For answer Kronberg merely pushed aside the tray of food with a
shudder. There was a dreadful nausea to-day in the pit of his stomach.
"So?" said Carl. "Well," he regretted, "there are always the finger
stretchers. They're crude, Kronberg, and homemade, but in time they'll
do the work."
Kronberg's face grew colorless as death itself as his mind leaped to
the torture of the day before. A clamp for every finger tip, a metal
bar between--the hell-conceived device invented by his jailer forced
the fingers wide apart and held them there as in vise until a stiffness
bound the aching cords, then a pain which crept snakelike to the
elbow--and the shoulder. Then when the tortured nerves fell wildly to
telegraphing spasmodic jerkings of distress from head to toe, the
shrugging devil with the flute would talk vividly of roaring wood fires
and the comforts awaiting the penitent below. Yesterday Kronberg had
fainted. To-day--
Carl presently took the singular metal contrivance from his pocket,
deftly clamped the fingers of his victim and sat down to wait,
rummaging for his flute.
The tension snapped.
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