the laughing murderer sent gas under the door of the wine cellar, it promptly anaesthetized Xenan and plunged Brown into deeper unconsciousness. But not The Avenger. The instant the acrid fumes stung Benson’s nostrils, he simply held his coat lapel up to his nose and breathed through that.
When the man came in and got Xenan, at the end of ten minutes, The Avenger could have felled him with ease. But it suited Dick’s purpose better to feign unconsciousness till the man had gone. Then, moving like a pale-eyed tiger, The Avenger slid to the fourth basement door, the tunnel door, and ran silently out to the garage.
The door out there was closed, too. He opened it an inch, saw three men straining to hold upright the vast, inert weight of the giant Smitty while they fastened him with heavy skid chains to hooks in the garage wall.
Dick’s eyes were as grim as polar ice under a pale moon, and for an instant it looked as if he would drop everything and rescue his man. But that would obviously have tipped his hand, so he went on. Behind the backs of the straining men he padded soundlessly to the rear of a big car lurking there in the garage. He opened the rear compartment and got inside it, leaving it open a bit in order to see.
After quite a while he heard more men enter the garage, coming from the house. They were not laughing so hard, but there were still the maniacal chuckles to be heard. The car sagged with their weight, and Dick tensed his iron muscles for a desperate fight if necessary.
There was Xenan. It was pretty certain that these men were carting him away somewhere. It would have been natural if they’d crammed the millionaire into the car’s trunk; and if they tried that, Benson would be discovered. And you can’t go into action very readily from so small a space.
However, the gang apparently decided to ride Xenan in the car, for presently the motor leaped to life. Dick felt the sedan back out of the garage. It whirled, started forward. He felt it jounce as it left the driveway and turned down the street.
There was a long ride, during which The Avenger flexed his supple muscles scientifically to keep them at top pitch in spite of his cramped position. And “top pitch” for Dick Benson meant something!
Now and then, a person is born with muscles that seem to be of a special quality, so that ounce for ounce they are many times stronger than ordinary muscle fiber. Benson’s iron body was like this. The Avenger was no more than average height and weighed about a hundred and sixty-five pounds; but even the giant Smitty, with all his tremendous strength, could not bring him to his knees.
The car was miles away from Xenan’s house, now. There had been many curves and twists, and the car had bumped and jounced over many types of roads, hard-topped, dirt, gravel. These were back roads. And the car had turned north on leaving the house and had kept that general direction.
They’d come far north, then, into rural Connecticut, over back roads.
Finally the car stopped, and The Avenger tensed again. But it was still, it seemed, not the end of the journey. He heard another motor, off to the left. The men had joined other men here.
During the ride The Avenger had heard nothing but the loud singing of the tires so close to his ears. He could faintly hear voices. But no laughter. The bizarre drug of Harry Tate’s invention had lost its effectiveness, it seemed. It did not last long.
Benson, for all the marvelous keenness of his jungle-developed hearing, only managed to catch a few words in a mumble of voices.
“—Nailen. Meet us—”
That was all.
There was a slam of car doors off to the left where that idling motor sounded, the noise of a car being backed around and driven down the road. Then the sedan came to life, too, and took up its northward journey.
This time, just before it stopped, The Avenger heard the hollow rumble of boards under the wheels. And darkness, covering the crack through which he
When the man came in and got Xenan, at the end of ten minutes, The Avenger could have felled him with ease. But it suited Dick’s purpose better to feign unconsciousness till the man had gone. Then, moving like a pale-eyed tiger, The Avenger slid to the fourth basement door, the tunnel door, and ran silently out to the garage.
The door out there was closed, too. He opened it an inch, saw three men straining to hold upright the vast, inert weight of the giant Smitty while they fastened him with heavy skid chains to hooks in the garage wall.
Dick’s eyes were as grim as polar ice under a pale moon, and for an instant it looked as if he would drop everything and rescue his man. But that would obviously have tipped his hand, so he went on. Behind the backs of the straining men he padded soundlessly to the rear of a big car lurking there in the garage. He opened the rear compartment and got inside it, leaving it open a bit in order to see.
After quite a while he heard more men enter the garage, coming from the house. They were not laughing so hard, but there were still the maniacal chuckles to be heard. The car sagged with their weight, and Dick tensed his iron muscles for a desperate fight if necessary.
There was Xenan. It was pretty certain that these men were carting him away somewhere. It would have been natural if they’d crammed the millionaire into the car’s trunk; and if they tried that, Benson would be discovered. And you can’t go into action very readily from so small a space.
However, the gang apparently decided to ride Xenan in the car, for presently the motor leaped to life. Dick felt the sedan back out of the garage. It whirled, started forward. He felt it jounce as it left the driveway and turned down the street.
There was a long ride, during which The Avenger flexed his supple muscles scientifically to keep them at top pitch in spite of his cramped position. And “top pitch” for Dick Benson meant something!
Now and then, a person is born with muscles that seem to be of a special quality, so that ounce for ounce they are many times stronger than ordinary muscle fiber. Benson’s iron body was like this. The Avenger was no more than average height and weighed about a hundred and sixty-five pounds; but even the giant Smitty, with all his tremendous strength, could not bring him to his knees.
The car was miles away from Xenan’s house, now. There had been many curves and twists, and the car had bumped and jounced over many types of roads, hard-topped, dirt, gravel. These were back roads. And the car had turned north on leaving the house and had kept that general direction.
They’d come far north, then, into rural Connecticut, over back roads.
Finally the car stopped, and The Avenger tensed again. But it was still, it seemed, not the end of the journey. He heard another motor, off to the left. The men had joined other men here.
During the ride The Avenger had heard nothing but the loud singing of the tires so close to his ears. He could faintly hear voices. But no laughter. The bizarre drug of Harry Tate’s invention had lost its effectiveness, it seemed. It did not last long.
Benson, for all the marvelous keenness of his jungle-developed hearing, only managed to catch a few words in a mumble of voices.
“—Nailen. Meet us—”
That was all.
There was a slam of car doors off to the left where that idling motor sounded, the noise of a car being backed around and driven down the road. Then the sedan came to life, too, and took up its northward journey.
This time, just before it stopped, The Avenger heard the hollow rumble of boards under the wheels. And darkness, covering the crack through which he
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