The Midnight Guest by Fred M. White — Read

Meanwhile, Walter was standing there in pitch darkness, utterly at a loss what to do next. He had no light to guide him. He had not the remotest idea in which direction the door lay. He took a step or two forward, with outstretched hands, until his fingers touched the wall. There were so many unfamiliar objects here that it was some little time before he felt his way with his finger-tips to the door. He found it at length, and the knob yielded to his touch. No sooner was he in the corridor than a dazzling flash confused and mystified him. Before he could realise what had happened the light was gone, and a pair of strong, sinewy arms were about his neck. He was taken utterly at a disadvantage. Walter swayed backwards. He fell with a resounding crash on the floor. A million stars danced before his eyes, and then he remembered no more.

When he came to himself again he was lying in an armchair, to which he was fastened by a maze of cords, wound cunningly about him. As his head became clear and less confused, he realised that he was in a kind of library, the walls of which were lined with books. Opposite him Silva was seated, with a placid smile upon his face.