face that peered in. He longed to shout, but his gag prevented him. So he was not yet dead! He wondered why—he should be, by now, he decided. He looked at the window pane again.
The face was still there. Quietly the figure outside the window put forth an arm and raised the window, softly, noiselessly. Just as noiselessly he let himself into the room, moving like a ghost. He flashed his pocket flashlight on the figure of Val on the couch.
“All right, Mr. Morley,” he whispered softly, and a great pean of thanksgiving burst out in the heart of Val. It was the voice of Eddie Hughes!
Eddie whipped out his knife and cut the gag. “The gas, Eddie!” whispered Val sibilantly. “It’s on!”
Swiftly Eddie turned off the two jets.
There was a stirring in the next room. A hand was laid on the door. Like a shadow Eddie leaped to the door, standing behind it. The door opened, letting a stream of light into the room.
“Oughtta be all over by now,” came the voice of O’Hara as he and the Rat stepped in. “I don’t smell no⸺”
With a groan he slumped down on the floor in a heap, dead to a heedless world. The butt of Eddie’s automatic had found its mark. The other whirled only to look down the barrel of Eddie’s gun.
“Stick ’em up!” grated Eddie.
The other’s hands shot toward the ceiling.
“Attaboy!” applauded Val from his couch. “Cut me loose, will you, Eddie. I’m tired of staying here.”
“Just a sec, Mr. Morley,” said Eddie. “Hey, you,” he said to his prisoner, “untie those cords—an’ don’t try nothing funny, either—or it’ll be your last joke.”
Impelled by the ominous blue black automatic, the
