WITHOUT CONDITIONS In the midst of a darkness that could be felt Fletcher Hill stood, grimly motionless, waiting.

He knew that strong-room, had likened it to a condemned cell every time he had entered it, and with bitter humour he told himself that he had put his own neck into the noose with a vengeance this time.
Not often--if ever--before had he made the fatal mistake of trusting one who was untrustworthy.

He would not have dreamed of trusting Harley, for instance.

But for some reason he had chosen to repose his confidence in Warden, and now it seemed that he was to pay the price of his rashness.
It was that fact that galled him far more than the danger with which he was confronted.

That he, Fletcher Hill--the Bloodhound--ever wary and keen of scent, should have failed to detect a _ruse_ so transparent--this inflicted a wound that his pride found it hard to sustain.