an arch smile. Stella’s smile was an heirloom which had probably belonged to her mother.
CHAPTER NINE
N ayland Smith came to the surface from the depths of an unfathomable purple lake. A voice, unpleasantly familiar, matter-of-fact, reached his ears through violet haze which overhung the lake.
“I trust you find yourself quite restored, Sir Denis?”
Smith strove to identify the speaker; to determine his true environment; to find himself.
“And don’t hesitate to reply. You are no longer dumb. The discomfort was temporary.”
The speaker was identified. He was Dr. Malcolm!
“I—I—why… thank God! I can
speak!
”
Nayland Smith’s voice rose higher on every word.
“So I observe. You are an expert boxer, Sir Denis; for a man of your years a remarkable one. Myself, although trained in several types of wrestling, unfortunately I know little of boxing.”
Dr. Malcolm wore a long white coat. He was regarding Smith with professional interest.
“Too bad. You’ll miss it when I get loose!” Smith rapped.
But Dr. Malcolm retained his suavity.
“Pugnacity highly developed. You appear to feel no gratitude for your restored power of speech?”
He poured a vivid blue liquid from a beaker into a phial. The phial he placed in a leather case.
“No. I’m waiting for the later symptoms to develop.”
Dr. Malcolm reclosed his case.
“You will wait in vain. The first injection I administered was intended merely to paralyze the muscles of articulation.”
“Thanks. It did.”
“A second counteracted it.”
“Truly ingenious.”
“But,” Dr. Malcolm went on, “my duties in your case were not nearly so dangerous as in the case of the policeman, Moreno. I was subject to exposure throughout the time I remained in the hospital.”
“So I gather,” said Smith.
This man’s cool audacity fascinated him.
“Of course”—Dr. Malcolm locked his leather case—“Circle 7-0300 is the number of a well-known hotel. I don’t live there.” He showed strong white teeth in a smile. “Mai Cha was most convincing as the girl who had been robbed, I thought?”
“I thought so too.”
Nayland Smith glanced about him. The place proved to be more extensive than he had supposed at that strange awakening. It was a big cellar. Much of it was unlighted—a dim background of mystery.
“We had several key men in the crowd, of course. The police officer was an intruder. But I did my best with him.” (“So did I!” Nayland Smith was thinking.)
“When you succeeded in knocking me out, I was indebted to this officer—and to a pair of our people placed to cover such a possibility—for your recapture.”
“Yes, you were,” said Smith conversationally. “All the luck lay with you.” As Dr. Malcolm picked up his case: “Must you be going?”
“Yes. I am leaving you now. I regret the incivility of putting you under constraint. You will have noted, since you are fully restored, that your arms are lightly attached to the bench upon which you sit. These thin lines, however, are quite unbreakable, except by a wire-cutter. A preparation invented by my principal. I bid you good night Sir Denis. It is improbable that we meet again.”
“Highly improbable,” Smith murmured. “But lucky, once more, for you! By the way, how long have I been here?”
Dr. Malcolm paused.
“Nearly twenty-four hours—”
“What!”
“Not actually in this cellar, but under my care, elsewhere. You have been suitably nourished, and I assure you there will be no ill effects.”
Dr. Malcolm merged into the background. His white coat, ghostlike, marked his progress for a while and then became swallowed up. An evidently heavy door was opened—and closed.
Twenty-four hours!
Nayland Smith satisfied himself that he was indeed helpless. The slender, flexible threads, like strands of silk, which confined his arms were steel-tough. The bench was clamped to the floor. He peered into surrounding gloom. One light on the wall behind him
CHAPTER NINE
N ayland Smith came to the surface from the depths of an unfathomable purple lake. A voice, unpleasantly familiar, matter-of-fact, reached his ears through violet haze which overhung the lake.
“I trust you find yourself quite restored, Sir Denis?”
Smith strove to identify the speaker; to determine his true environment; to find himself.
“And don’t hesitate to reply. You are no longer dumb. The discomfort was temporary.”
The speaker was identified. He was Dr. Malcolm!
“I—I—why… thank God! I can
speak!
”
Nayland Smith’s voice rose higher on every word.
“So I observe. You are an expert boxer, Sir Denis; for a man of your years a remarkable one. Myself, although trained in several types of wrestling, unfortunately I know little of boxing.”
Dr. Malcolm wore a long white coat. He was regarding Smith with professional interest.
“Too bad. You’ll miss it when I get loose!” Smith rapped.
But Dr. Malcolm retained his suavity.
“Pugnacity highly developed. You appear to feel no gratitude for your restored power of speech?”
He poured a vivid blue liquid from a beaker into a phial. The phial he placed in a leather case.
“No. I’m waiting for the later symptoms to develop.”
Dr. Malcolm reclosed his case.
“You will wait in vain. The first injection I administered was intended merely to paralyze the muscles of articulation.”
“Thanks. It did.”
“A second counteracted it.”
“Truly ingenious.”
“But,” Dr. Malcolm went on, “my duties in your case were not nearly so dangerous as in the case of the policeman, Moreno. I was subject to exposure throughout the time I remained in the hospital.”
“So I gather,” said Smith.
This man’s cool audacity fascinated him.
“Of course”—Dr. Malcolm locked his leather case—“Circle 7-0300 is the number of a well-known hotel. I don’t live there.” He showed strong white teeth in a smile. “Mai Cha was most convincing as the girl who had been robbed, I thought?”
“I thought so too.”
Nayland Smith glanced about him. The place proved to be more extensive than he had supposed at that strange awakening. It was a big cellar. Much of it was unlighted—a dim background of mystery.
“We had several key men in the crowd, of course. The police officer was an intruder. But I did my best with him.” (“So did I!” Nayland Smith was thinking.)
“When you succeeded in knocking me out, I was indebted to this officer—and to a pair of our people placed to cover such a possibility—for your recapture.”
“Yes, you were,” said Smith conversationally. “All the luck lay with you.” As Dr. Malcolm picked up his case: “Must you be going?”
“Yes. I am leaving you now. I regret the incivility of putting you under constraint. You will have noted, since you are fully restored, that your arms are lightly attached to the bench upon which you sit. These thin lines, however, are quite unbreakable, except by a wire-cutter. A preparation invented by my principal. I bid you good night Sir Denis. It is improbable that we meet again.”
“Highly improbable,” Smith murmured. “But lucky, once more, for you! By the way, how long have I been here?”
Dr. Malcolm paused.
“Nearly twenty-four hours—”
“What!”
“Not actually in this cellar, but under my care, elsewhere. You have been suitably nourished, and I assure you there will be no ill effects.”
Dr. Malcolm merged into the background. His white coat, ghostlike, marked his progress for a while and then became swallowed up. An evidently heavy door was opened—and closed.
Twenty-four hours!
Nayland Smith satisfied himself that he was indeed helpless. The slender, flexible threads, like strands of silk, which confined his arms were steel-tough. The bench was clamped to the floor. He peered into surrounding gloom. One light on the wall behind him
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