Chapter XXVI: A Cry

“Gold! Gold!” The vibrant murmurs, edged with a triumphant and sinister note, echoed in Cole’s ears as he opened his eyes. The house was shivering with a slow, rhythmic tremor, a throbbing pulsation that instantly began to pierce the fog in his mind.

From his recumbent position on the floor he struggled to a sitting posture. Lifting his head, he listened to the grimly exultant pæan rising from the bowels of the earth.

“Feeling better?” asked a voice which he vaguely recognized at Doctor Latham’s.

Cole did not answer. The subterranean vibrations seemed to cast a spell over his awakening senses.

“Hear it?” he asked at length.

“Hear what?”

“This infernal hymn of gold. It will drive me crazy if I have to listen to it much longer.”

“Then don’t listen. Know what time it is?”

Cole shook his head as if to indicate that the matter was of absolutely no importance.

“Precisely twelve o’clock,” said the doctor, and Cole heard something resembling the snapping of a watch lid. “You have been unconscious for something like ten hours. That was the second knock-out in a night, Cole. Why can’t these scoundrels show a little versatility?”

“What happened?” asked Cole dully.

“As if that mattered now! Englebreth gave a signal of some sort, and the next thing I knew about half a dozen of his hired thugs swooped down on us. My recollections cease at that point.”

“Where are we?”

“In the same room we occupied last night, before we were ushered into Englebreth’s august presence. The windows are just as tightly shuttered as they were then, and the door is just as impregnable. I wonder if these hounds mean to let us starve to death.”

Cole looked about him. An electric light was burning dimly over their heads. Through a narrow rift in one of the shutters came a shaft of sunlight, gilding the dust in the stale air.

“Where is Miss Brownell?” he asked abruptly.

“Wish I knew,” muttered the doctor. Of a sudden all the levity had died out of his voice. “You and I were alone in this room when I came to. If these rats harm a single hair on her head——” The threat died unfinished in a groan.

With difficulty Cole rose to his feet and leaned against the wall.

“I don’t seem to remember just where we were at,” he mumbled.

“You gave Miss Brownell a slap on the cheek,” the doctor reminded him. “It was a brilliant idea, Cole.”

“So it was—but it failed, as I remember,” Cole muttered grimly. “What was the situation just before that?”

“Englebreth was doing his level best to bluff me into revealing the formula of the mythical seventh ingredient. Perhaps you remember his sportsman-like proposition. I was to give him the formula in return for my life.”

“He would promptly kill you the moment you surrendered the formula,” Cole pointed out.

“Without a doubt. He would kill all three of us. But, as it happens, I can’t give him the formula, because it doesn’t exist.”

“But as long as he thinks it does, we are holding a trump card in reserve,” said Cole, regaining his grip on the tangled threads of the situation.

“If only we knew how to use it!”

“We’ll find a way,” said Cole confidently, dragging himself to a chair at one side of the room. “Anything about your person that could be used as a weapon in an emergency?”

“Not a thing. I am plucked clean.”

“So am I,” said Cole after a hasty survey of his pockets. “No, here is a stick pin. They seem to have overlooked that. The pin is long and sharp. You could pierce a person’s jugular vein with an implement of this kind, couldn’t you, doctor?”

“If you knew exactly where to strike.”

“You do, of course, being a doctor. As a weapon it would be useless in my hand, so I will transfer it to you. I suggest you conceal it under the lapel of your coat.”

Puzzled, Latham took the ornament and did as Cole had directed. As he hid it under his lapel, he seemed inclined to ask a question, but Cole forestalled him.

“I think some one is coming,” he remarked in an undertone.

Latham, listening, heard the sounds which Cole’s keener ears had caught first. Folding his arms across his chest, he struck a carefree pose and looked toward the door. It opened, and two armed stalwarts walked in. They were followed by Englebreth in his wheel chair. Two more guards, also armed, brought up the rear. With a cautious look to all sides, the invalid trundled his wheel chair into the center of the room. The barrel of a small automatic gleamed viciously in the electric light.

“How do you do, gentlemen?” he said in tones of mock geniality. “Wish I could offer you some breakfast, but it has been my experience that people are always more reasonable when their stomachs are empty. I have come to renew our discussion where we left off last night.” He fixed his bleak and very alert eyes on Doctor Latham.

“Better save your breath,” suggested the physician. “You may need it before we are through with you.”

Englebreth smiled serenely. “I don’t blame you, doctor, for trying to bolster up your courage. People usually resort to false bravado when they are hopelessly situated. Our friend Cole enacted quite a spectacular scene last night, but he will hardly try anything like that again. He has learned his lesson. Well, doctor, are you ready to oblige us?”

“If you will drop that automatic, I’ll oblige you with a smash on the jaw,” said the physician in unprofessional but impressive language.

“Still stubborn, I see.” His smile took on a sinister quality. “I suppose you are wondering what has become of Miss Brownell?”

The doctor bit his lip, but his gaze did not waver. “If anything happens to Miss Brownell,” he muttered hotly, “I’ll choke you to death with my bare hands.”

“Save your threats, doctor. They don’t interest me in the least. As yet nothing whatever has happened to Miss Brownell, but something will unless you adopt a more reasonable attitude. I warn you that it will be something decidedly unpleasant.” He turned slightly in the chair and addressed one of his bodyguards. “Ask Doctor Ballinger to step in here.”

The man nodded and left the room. A questioning glance passed between Latham and Cole, the former looking as if a dread suspicion had suddenly occurred to him. In a few moments the messenger returned with Ballinger. The physician strode in with a jaunty air and saluted Cole and Latham with exaggerated politeness.

“Ah, Ballinger,” said the cripple in an undertone, yet loud enough for the two prisoners to hear, “I just wished to make certain that you have made all necessary arrangements for the—ahem—experiment we discussed last night.”

Cole, casting a sidelong glance at Latham, saw him stiffen suddenly. A film of pallor spread above the bearded portion of his face.

“Yes, everything is ready,” announced Ballinger.

“The instruments came?”

“Just a little while ago.”

“And the ether?”

“It is here too.”

“Good, Ballinger. Be ready to proceed the moment you hear from me.” He waved a withered hand in dismissal.

Ballinger, an inscrutable smile playing about his lips, left the room. An intense silence followed. The cripple’s gelid gaze moved from Latham to Cole, and then back to Latham.

“You understood?” he asked.

Neither man answered. A harrowing suspicion seemed to have come over both of them. Latham looked as if his powerful body was racked by an agonizing dread.

“Ballinger is a very clever man,” murmured the invalid. “You know what happened to Malcolm Reeves.” He paused, looked stonily at Doctor Latham, as if waiting for his last words to produce their utmost effect. “The same thing,” he added slowly, measuring each word, “will happen to Miss Brownell unless you change your mind, Latham.”

A cry of mingled horror, loathing and hate broke from Latham’s compressed lips. He sprang toward the cripple, hand raised as if to strike, but in an instant two of the bodyguards intervened.

“Glad we understand each other, Latham,” said the cripple calmly. “The operation will start in fifteen minutes unless you submit to my terms.”

Latham stood speechless. The only sound heard in the room was a great sigh.

“Don’t like the idea, eh, Latham?” the invalid went on in smooth, dulcet tones. “The spectacle of Miss Brownell reduced to a gibbering lunatic is a little too much for your imagination to dwell on. You have a vivid recollection of what happened to Reeves.”

A dull, hoarse groan sounded in the physician’s chest. Cole, watching him, thought he was about to give way under an overwhelming strain.

“You’re mistaken, Englebreth,” he managed to say. “There is no such thing as the seventh ingredient. I let you go on thinking so because——”

Englebreth interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I expected you to say that. It would be your logical evasion. You can’t deceive me with such nonsense. Only last night you discussed the possibilities of the seventh ingredient with Professor Carmody. As he explained it to me, it’s a sort of electronic reaction. Not being a scientific man, I don’t understand what that means, but it doesn’t matter. I have the utmost respect for your scientific achievements, doctor. Will you give us the formula?”

Latham fumbled in vain for a convincing argument. His advantage had not only slipped away from him, but it had become a deadly boomerang in Englebreth’s hand.

“I swear I am telling you the truth!” he cried brokenly.

A cold smile curled the cripple’s lips. “Such childish subterfuge doesn’t go with me,” he said contemptuously. “Either you give me the formula instantly, or Miss Brownell will be a lunatic inside of an hour. Take your choice.”

He leaned back in the chair, slowly and playfully twisting the automatic in his hand. Cole stepped forward.

“Latham has told you the truth,” he declared. “The seventh ingredient never existed outside of his imagination.”

Englebreth shrugged with an air of utter incredulity. Cole could see that there was no way of disturbing his firmly rooted belief. And he knew that, even if the seventh ingredient had been a reality, Latham’s submission would not have altered their situation.

Englebreth looked at his watch, then summoned one of his bodyguards and whispered something in his ear. The man left the room. The slamming of the door sounded like a death knell in the tense silence. Latham’s chest heaved in a frenzy of suppressed emotions. Minutes passed, and then hurried footsteps sounded overhead, accompanied by the sound of a resisting body being dragged over the floor. Latham, with a wild look in his face, started forward, but one of the guards shoved him back. Breathing fast and raspingly he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Of a sudden he gave a violent start, then stood as if frozen into immobility. From the room above came a long cry of terror, uttered in a woman’s voice.

Latham’s bulging eyes stared upward. There was a look of insanity in his face.

“Stop it!” he cried hoarsely. “For God’s sake——”

Another cry, more poignant than the others, shrilled through the house.

“Stop it—you fiend!” cried Latham.

“I will, on one condition,” said Englebreth calmly. “There is still time. They are only making preparations upstairs. She won’t cry when the real business begins.”

Latham’s hand went to his eyes as if to exclude a hideous vision.

“Careful, Englebreth!” said Cole evenly. “If you go too far, Latham may lose his mind.”

“And if he does, what then?” demanded the cripple jeeringly.

“A number of things may happen.” Cole gave the physician a level, significant glance. “For instance, Latham may take it into his head to kill himself.”

The physician’s head went up. His hands left his face. A look of dawning comprehension crept into his features. He turned his head and for an instant his eyes met Cole’s, reading a message there.

“Kill himself?” echoed the cripple, astonished. “What rot, Cole! How would he do it, and why?”

“Ask him,” said Cole with a careless gesture. “I can only point out to you that if he kills himself the secret of the seventh ingredient dies with him. Look! He is——”

He simulated a cry of astonishment and horror. Latham, quickly interpreting the message he had read in Cole’s eyes, had snatched the stick pin from under the lapel of his coat.

“Watch me, Englebreth,” he declared in a voice that had suddenly retrieved all its lost vigor. “Even a stick pin makes quite a formidable weapon if it’s pointed in the right direction. I am pointing this one straight at my jugular vein. The moment anybody in this room makes a move, I drive it in. Where will your seventh ingredient be then, Englebreth?”

The cripple stared at him in speechless bafflement. He raised a hand, but it fell limply to his side.

“You—you’re crazy!” he stuttered.

“Maybe,” said Latham coolly.

“Or else you are only bluffing.” There was a trace of doubt in Englebreth’s tones.

“Why should I be bluffing? I would rather kill myself than be killed by your bunch of hyenas. I know you meant to kill me, anyway, Englebreth. One thing is certain. Unless you stop the preparations upstairs within the next sixty seconds, your last hope of obtaining that formula will be gone. You can’t get anything out of a dead man.”

Englebreth strained forward in his chair, staring into the physician’s grim, determined face.

“He means what he says,” Cole declared, smiling despite the tension of the moment. “You will have to act quickly, Englebreth.”

The cripple considered a moment longer, then bawled an order to one of the men at the door. The fellow hurried away, and in a moment they heard him scurrying up the stairs. An exchange of words sounded overhead, then all was quiet.

Englebreth made an impatient gesture with his hand. The bodyguard closed in around him, and with petulant motions he wheeled himself out of the room. At the door he turned his head for a moment, and a little chill rippled down Cole’s back as he saw the cold, malignant look in the cripple’s eye.