Flynn’s Weekly. Vol. 22, No. 3, March 5, 1927

“We didn’t just stumble onto this ghastly affair,” remarked Martin. “We were sent here for a strange reason.”

The star reporter of the Washington Times-Journal, Fred Martin, is sent to interview the South American celebrity. Professor Debara at his apartment in Kensington Mansions. Accompanied by a Times-Journal photographer, Tracy by name. Martin calls at Kensington Mansions, but instead of finding the professor, to his horror, he discover a young woman who has been murdered by the breaking of her neck. She is the wife of the diplomat. Palmer Hollisworth. Martin had stumbled upon this tragedy through a misunderstanding of Professor Debara’s address, which was Kingsley Mansions instead of Kensington Mansions. But apparently some one had a hand in the misunderstanding.

Philip MacCray, well known Chicago detective, who has been summoned by Mrs. Hollisworth, learns that his client has been murdered. He assumes the responsibility of investigation and enlists the aid of Reporter Martin. They learn that the finger-prints about the room in which Mrs. Hollisworth was killed are those of her missing husband. But it is apparent that the chair with which the deed was done was wielded by a left-handed man, and Hollisworth is not left-handed.

Martin and Detective MacCray continue the hunt for Hollisworth, but a week drags by and still they have found no trace of him. In a traffic accident Martin meets Professor Debara s daughter, Celia, and the two become good friends. Then when Martin boards a Florida-bound steamer with a reporter friend he suddenly comes upon the missing Hollisworth, who apparently has been suffering from some strange mental lapse.

Hollisworth dies, but not before he reveals a Dr. Dax as the man under whose hypnotic influence he murdered his wife. The doctor, it is learned by Martin, frequents the Palace Nocturne, a “high-class” gambling joint. Martin visits the place and is surprised to come upon Celia Debara there. The two wander about until they find themselves in a secret chamber. They imagine it is the lair of the fiendish Dax. But before they can leave the latch dicks and they are forced to await the caller concealed behind the room’s heavy draperies. Dr. Dax enters, finds them, and attempts to hypnotize the two. In the midst of a great mental struggle, Martin shoots twice, and the light goes out.

Chapter XLIII (Continued) The Arch Fiend

Martin snatched open the door, gathered the unconscious woman up in his arms, and staggered blindly through the opening. He found himself in the dead rose garden of the Palace Nocturne.

Panic-stricken with the fear that the awful being was at his heels, he ran like a deer toward the front of the house, crashing through bushes and shrubbery, dodging trees and stone benches.

Behind him he could hear confused sounds in the house which told that his shots had aroused people on the first floor.

But he did not stop. Scarcely conscious of the weight of his burden, he continued to flee across the muddy and snow-spotted garden. He despaired of escape if the attendants of the casino joined forces with the hypnotist, but he ran on.

His breath was coming in gasps now, and sharp pains gripped his chest. He stumbled and staggered, but continued to run without loosening his hold on girl or gun.

Finally he stumbled onto the curving, graveled walk which led to the front veranda. Here the going was easier. He heard a shout from the rear of the garden, and a light flashed.

Reason told him that this was not Dr. Dax, but it was a pursuer. Perhaps it was an outer guard of the place to prevent a holdup of the house. Whoever it was it meant trouble.

And then his desperate eyes caught the glint of starlight on the body and fenders of a motor. It was a limousine waiting for the egress of its owner, and, blessed luck, a chauffeur slumbered at the wheel, wrapped up in a greatcoat. Rather, the man had been dozing. He was now rousing himself at the unusual sounds from the garden.

With the agility of a hunted man Martin twisted open the nearest door and stumbled into the interior of the car, burden and all. Like a flash, he was on his knees with his gun jammed against the neck of the startled driver.

“Get going!” he snarled. “Open her up — wide!”

The chauffeur was a prudent man. He could tell when a man’s voice was desperate. Besides, the nose of the still warm automatic was a mighty inducement. With the ease of one perfectly familiar with his car, he flipped a switch or two and stepped on his starter.

The motor roared into life, the powerful headlights stabbed through the night, and the big car lurched violently forward with spinning, whining tires as he threw the clutch in mesh with the flywheel.

Careening wildly, the machine sped down the driveway, while Martin jerked the door shut and peered through the rear window for signs of pursuit.

But there was none. It was almost a perfect get-away, thanks to the splendid promptness of the chauffeur. The sedan skidded through the gate and onto the concrete road before the amazed gatekeeper was out of his lodge.

“Where to, boss?” the driver shot back over his shoulder.

“Washington,” said Martin. “Police headquarters!”

Then he turned his attention to his companion. Tenderly he lifted the girl to the seat of the swaying car. They had made their escape without wraps of any kind. He knew she must be cold. He held her close in his arms and proceeded to wrap the lap-robe about her figure.

She stirred in his clasp and seemed to snuggle closer. He was reminded of that other time — it seemed months ago — when he had held her thus and she had murmured in a never to be forgotten voice, “Only here, señor.”

If it had not been Cavassier, whom had it been in her thoughts? He shook off this intensely irritating question to which he could not know the answer, and remembered how he had fallen into the car with her, half crushing her beneath his own body.

“Did I hurt you, Celia?” he murmured in her ear anxiously. “Oh, my darling, are you injured? Answer me, for God’s sake!”

There was a change in her breathing. In the gloom of the limousine’s interior he could feel her eyes upon him. A shudder ran through her frame.

“That awful being!” she whispered. “Where is he? Did we escape?”

“We didn’t do anything else,” he answered with a nervous little laugh, clasping her bundled form closer.

She nodded. “It was so silly of me to scream. I am sorry, but it frightened me.”

“I was scared to death myself,” he admitted. “I wonder if I hit him.”

“Did you fire your gun, señor?”

“I did, but I fear I didn’t do him any damage. I didn’t see his face clearly at all. Did you?”

“No,” she answered slowly. “And yet, there was something familiar about him, awful though he was. I... I wonder if I’ve seen him before.”

“That was the man who had Cavassier make that telephone call. His name is Dr. Dax — and he is from Brazil. Think! Have you ever heard of him?”

She knit her brows in concentration.

“I have heard that name,” she said. “Dax... Dax — it sounds strangely familiar. But I do not recall — perhaps my father would know. Oh, let us speak of something else, señor.”

She shuddered again, and he tightened his embrace reassuringly. He did not think to release her now that she was again herself. Neither did she suggest it. She seemed content to lie in his arms. But for once her delicious proximity, her charm, failed to usurp all of his faculties.

Martin could not forget the tragic expression on the face of Jonathan Rookes. He remembered the case of Palmer Hollis-worth, and wondered.

Chapter XLIV The Man at the Wheel

The aristocratic confines of Chevy Chase had long since been left behind. It was suicide to speed along the wet and slippery streets at this mad pace they were traveling.

Since pursuit was not pressing, the more moderate pace of forty miles per hour would be advisable. He so instructed the driver.

“Where are we going, señor?” she asked him.

Martin considered this question. He had told the chauffeur to drive to the police station, but that did not seem so logical a procedure now that they had escaped in safety.

In the first place, there would be neither MacCray nor Clausen there to consult with. A raid on the Palace Nocturne now would hardly find Dr. Dax there. It would only cause Carlyle a great deal of trouble and gain nothing.

What a fool he had been to undertake his investigation alone! He had bungled the job, and Dr. Dax, warned and on guard, had escaped. Martin cherished no illusion that he may have shot the monster; he knew that he had not.

What could he tell MacCray if he found him? Nothing save that he had frightened Dr. Dax away from the Palace Nocturne. A fine report to make! He had to learn something now in order to tell the detective.

And there was one man who might be able to give him some information. It was after twelve o’clock, but who cared for conventionalities at a time like this?

“Where are we going?” he repeated slowly. “We are going to your home, where I am going to await the return of your father. If he doesn’t show up within an hour I shall... I shall go back to the Palace Nocturne and hunt for him.

“Driver, take us to Kingsley Mansions out on Sixteenth, and then you may do what you please. However, I wouldn’t advise you to report this matter to the police.”

“I am not liable to,” retorted the other dryly. “Since this happens to be the car of the owner of the joint.”

“What? You are Carl Monte’s chauffeur? This is his car?”

“Precisely, sir. He hadn’t been in the house thirty minutes before you came running through the garden.”

“Well, of all the Turpin luck!”

“I beg pardon, sir.”

“Cock-eyed luck, man. Say—”

A sudden thought struck Martin. Could Carl Monte and Dr. Dax be by any chance the same man?

“So you are Dax’s chauffeur,” he said with the air of one who understands much. “To think that I took the car and driver of the man who was after me.”

“Not Dax,” corrected the driver calmly. “Carl Monte.”

“They are the same man,” accused Martin.

“I beg to differ with you, Mr. Martin,” said the chauffeur gravely. “Even Mr. MacCray knew that.”

“You know me? You know MacCray?” The reporter gasped in amazement.

“I recognized you after we left the casino. I don’t imagine anybody would have stopped to inquire into identity at such a moment.”

“Who are you?”

“The driver of Carl Monte’s car.”

“Then, who is Carl Monte?”

“Sir, I am not at liberty to answer. Suppose you ask Mr. MacCray.”

“This beats me,” Martin murmured to the girl in his arms. To the driver he said:

“Where is this MacCray you speak of?”

“On the trail of Dr. Dax, just as you seem to be.”

“On second thought,” Martin ordered grimly, “we will go down to police headquarters, where I can have a little talk with you.”

“I strongly advise you against such a course,” warned the driver quickly. “You will likely interfere with Mr. MacCray’s plans.”

“What is your name?”

“Charles Glepen, sir.”

“Well, I don’t know you by name, Charles,” commented Martin grimly. “But I’m going to have a good look at you when we get to Kingsley Mansions.”

“You won’t know me, sir.”

“Then, how the devil do you pretend to know me?”

“Who, in Washington, doesn’t know Fred Martin these days? It is not impossible to have him pointed out. Besides, you have access to the Palace Nocturne which belongs to Mr. Monte.”

“You either know something I need to know, or you simply talk too much. Speed it up. You’re going into Kingsley Mansions with us for a little heart to heart talk.”

“Very well, sir.”

Kingsley Mansions was dark except for the light in the lower hall. With the lap-robe still wrapped about her slim figure in the approved style of the American squaw, Celia Debara got out of Martin’s arms demurely and led them into the building.

Uncomplainingly Glepen followed her, Martin bringing up the rear with his gun muzzle resting against the fellow’s spine.

The Señora Inez was up and anxiously awaiting the return of the Debaras. She admitted the oddly assorted trio in astonishment.

Martin motioned his captive to a chair as the old woman burst forth in a torrent of voluble Spanish. Celia stemmed the flood quickly.

“Does she understand English?” Martin asked the girl. He was beginning to grow suspicious of every one.

“Only a few words, señor.”

“Too many,” he decided. “Send her straight to bed. Where is the professor’s secretary?”

Celia questioned the duenna, and the latter replied that he was still out on some business for his master. Martin nodded in understanding to eliminate an unnecessary translation.

As the old woman, grumbling to herself, withdrew from the room he turned to the chauffeur:

“Now, then, Charles Glepen, we’ll take up our conversation where we left off. You’ll either tell me what you know, or we’ll take a trip down to headquarters. And I haven’t much time to coax you along, either.”

“As you will, Mr. Martin,” the man answered coolly.

“Well,” snapped the reporter. “Begin.”

Glepen shrugged. “What do you wish me to say, sir?”

“You started this trouble by volunteering the information that you were Monte’s chauffeur. Why did you do that?”

“Because, having learned who you were by listening to your conversation with this lady, I knew you had not robbed the casino. After you mentioned the name of Dr. Dax, I knew positively that I would not take you to the police station.

“Fortunately, you directed me to drive here. I did so. Knowing what I know, and not knowing how much about this case that you knew, I dropped the remark that I would not go to the police as a preparatory remark to argue you out of pursuing such a course later.

“I did not know at that moment whether you were working on this case as a merely energetic newspaper reporter or as a collaborator with Mr. MacCray. Thus, I let drop the remark about that gentleman. You snapped it up in a fashion that I knew you had heard of him.

“You refused to let me ask any questions of you by firing them at me. If you will now be so good as to tell me exactly who and what MacCray is, I will tell you all I know.

“If, on the other hand, you cannot satisfy me that you know all about him — and I heard him say nothing about you — I must refuse to talk.”

Chapter XLV A “Fixer”

Martin considered this amazing proposition. He thought it over carefully. Then, deciding that he was safe in speaking of MacCray, as this man had already done so first, he nodded shortly.

“Agreed. Philip MacCray is an eminent detective from Chicago who started in on the Hollisworth case and is now on the Dax mystery. Does that satisfy you?”

“You wrote in to-day’s paper that Palmer Hollisworth died without making a statement,” accused Glepen. “Do you or don’t you know better than that?”

“It was his statement that took me to the Palace Nocturne. And if you’ve merely tricked me into giving you information that you did not know you are going to leave this house on an undertaker’s stretcher.”

“I believe you,” nodded Glepen as he encountered the other’s fierce gaze. “However, I know much that you have not learned. I must pledge you to secrecy until you compare notes with Mr. MacCray. Will you do this?”

“Certainly.”

“And how about the lady here?”

“I pledge Miss Debara to secrecy, also.”

“Very well. This is what I know, sir.”

Glepen proceeded to relate the details of MacCray’s visit to Andrew Peterman and the amazing exchange of information which took place.

“Hence, you understand that we are now working with Mr. MacCray,” he concluded. “Perhaps I have been indiscreet in telling you the secret of my employer, but I think not. In exchange I am asking you for the details of your experience tonight. Will you tell me, Mr. Martin, just what happened?”

The young man thought rapidly. The mystery was rapidly becoming too complicated for him to consider clearly. There was no doubt that Glepen had told the truth. He remembered now the details of the arrest of Andrew Peterman, which had taken place after that telephone conversation with Dr. Dax.

Of course, Peterman had been the first person MacCray had thought of when the Hollisworth mystery merged into that of the debonair broker and the unknown Dr. Dax.

While Martin had gone off on a hazardous expedition to the Palace Nocturne, MacCray had gone directly to Peterman and, without creating the havoc the reporter had done, had got the same information as Martin, and then a great deal more.

Martin began to feel decidedly like a blundering amateur. He had rushed in blindly, perhaps spoiling MacCray’s careful plans. If, through his impetuosity, the sinister Brazilian escaped he could never forgive himself.

MacCray had certainly known whereof he spoke when he had said that a good detective was not made in a day. This moment was uncomfortably like the zero hour to the abashed and remorseful reporter.

“Certainly, I’ll tell you about it, Glepen,” he made answer somewhat humbly. And he related the rather hectic events of the evening. “Tell me,” he finished anxiously, “was MacCray there to-night with Peterman?”

Glepen shook his head. “Mr. Peterman, as Carl Monte, went for the express purpose of seeing what he might learn of Dax. Mr. MacCray is trying to find the central base of the man. I have no idea where he went when he left early this evening.

“If you will now excuse me, I must hurry back to the Palace Nocturne for Mr. Peterman. We must not be suspected by Dr. Dax. It will never do for him to think that I willingly aided in your escape.”

“What will you say if you should be questioned by him — providing he is still there?”

“So far I have been ignored by the man. However, it is not unlikely that such a cross-examination may follow. I am glad you mentioned the possibility. Did Dr. Dax see you clearly? Does he know you, do you think?”

“I would say no to both questions,” answered Martin slowly.

“In that case, I was forced, at the point of your gun, to drive you and the lady down into Rock Creek Park where you got out and bade me drive on.

“While I did not recognize you, I think you were a certain jewelry thief who must have stumbled into that private chamber in search of loot. Distinctly not a man who would carry his strange tale to the police about that interview — even if he attached any significance to it.”

“I suppose that will work, Glepen.”

“It will have to, sir. Of course, it is unfortunate that you chose my car in which to make a get-away. However, it may turn out for the best, after all. Good night, sir — and madam.”

After he had gone Celia Debara turned to Martin. She held out her hands in an appealing gesture.

“It is most unfortunate that I cried out,” she murmured sorrowfully as he took her hands. “Had I not done so there would have been no chance of this Dr. Dax suspecting anything. None of this would have happened.”

“It might have,” he consoled her. “Remember, we had not yet got out of the room without him being aware that he was spied on. He was on the verge of discovering us while you were slipping those bolts, before Mr. Rookes entered the room. As it is, perhaps no damage has been done.”

“I... I am afraid,” she answered soberly. “You might have learned something about his plans. And I... I spoiled it all.”

“I had no business taking you in there with me. It is all my fault. You are the gamest little lady in the world — you’re simply splendid,” he defended stoutly. “I only wish I had met you before that other fel — I mean, before — before—” He ended lamely.

“Before what, señor?” she inquired, looking up into his eyes in honest perplexity.

“I don’t know,” he admitted helplessly.

And he did not. It was impossible to name that unknown lover she had taken him to be for a precious moment. In fact, he could never reveal to her that glimpse he had had into her heart and about which she knew nothing. It was an unsurmountable contretemps.

Chapter XLVI The Zero Hour

The minute hand of the clock circled its weary path from twelve to twelve. At one o’clock there was no sign of the absent Professor Debara. Señora Inez had returned to the room and now sat quietly in one corner.

Twice Martin had suggested that both women go to bed, but Celia would not listen to the suggestion. She could not sleep, she declared, and she did not wish to be left alone with no other company than that of her dour duenna. Hence. Martin remained, becoming more nervous with each passing moment.

Then, just as he was on the verge of announcing his intention of returning to the Palace Nocturne to search for the professor, there were footsteps in the corridor. A key rattled in the lock, and a visibly agitated Debara burst into the room.

His mustache was aquiver with excitement and the black eyes behind the heavy lenses were almost glittering. He left the door ajar in his anxiety.

“Celia!” he cried out emotionally. “My dear child, are you quite all right? I hurried as fast as I could.”

There was a strangeness in his manner that was unusual and which had its effect on every one of them. What could he know of late events?

“Certainly she is all right, professor,” said Martin, studying the man keenly. “Why do you ask that question, sir?”

The Brazilian pierced the speaker with a quick glance.

“Cavassier told me that you had interfered in affairs which do not concern you, señor,” he answered chillingly. “I must ask you for an explanation.”

“And I must ask you for the same thing,” retorted Martin grimly. “Will you kindly sit down and compose yourself?” The man bristled up at once. Celia started to her feet to calm him. He waved her back to her chair. Then he slowly advanced from his position near the door. He eyed the American coldly. He had a queer, dampening effect — more so than his usual aloof manner.

“Professor Debara,” Martin said sharply, “it is after one o’clock. Why are you so long getting home?”

“I fail to see that it is any of your business, señor.”

“On the contrary, it is very much my business. You will answer my questions — or face a police investigation for your actions to-night. What were you doing at the Palace Nocturne?”

The Brazilian seemed to wilt at this threat.

“I went there in my attempt to trace the man who had Cavassier call your paper that afternoon. I was anxious to learn why I had been implicated in the affair.”

“Why were you so late getting home after your daughter left?”

“I — there seemed to be some sort of excitement after you departed. There were revolver shots. It was rumored that there had been a robbery or a shooting affair of some kind.

“The doors were locked and no one was allowed to leave until they had been passed by the manager of the place and a quiet little man I took to be a detective. As soon as possible, frantic about my daughter’s safety, I hurried here.”

“You don’t know who this quiet little man was?”

“I do not, señor.”

“He was the owner of the casino. Did you see any one else there who impressed you in any way? Did you find out anything about the man you are looking for?”

“I did not. Do you know anything about him?”

“I do, professor,” responded Martin grimly. “Suppose we sit down instead of standing and glaring at each other like a pair of fighting cocks? I shall tell you who he is, and then I want you to tell me who he is. A game of ping-pong, in a way.”

Debara, still muffled in his outer garments, hands still gloved, hat still pulled down over his forehead, merely stared a long moment at the reporter.

“You know something,” he said. “Let us lay our cards on the table, señor, as you suggest. You tell me all you know, and I will tell you what you wish to know.”

“Agreed,” said Martin, seeing a chance to retrieve himself in the eyes of MacCray providing Debara knew anything about his fellow countryman.

The professor turned his back and removed his outdoor garments. He placed a chair somewhat apart from the others and seated himself.

“Pray, proceed with your story, señor,” he said.

“The man you are seeking is called Dr. Dax. He is from Brazil, like yourself. He was a fairly well-known physician in your country. Here he is unknown. But I know him to be a super-hypnotist and the murderer of Lillian Hollisworth.”

“Then Hollisworth did make a statement before he died,” said Debara sharply. “You did not write the truth in your paper.”

“I did not. Why should I send Dr. Dax a public message that I was after him? Hollisworth told me that I would likely find the man at the Palace Nocturne. That was why I was there to-night. Through Cavassier you learned the same thing.

“Now I can safely tell you that your enemy is Dr. Dax. He is the man we are both after. Celia — Señorita Debara, thought the name familiar and that you might be able to shed some light on the matter now that I can name the man.

“You told me since that first brief interview between us that you had known Hollisworth in Brazil. Now tell me if you knew Dax in Brazil.”

“Quite well, indeed.”

“Well?” demanded the reporter eagerly as the other paused. “What do you know about him?”

“More, I should say, than any other person. I know, also, that you are a very meddlesome young man whose activities, unless terminated now, would be ruinous to me.”

A deadly something had leaped from obscurity into the atmosphere. The identical feeling of malignancy which had all but overpowered him in the actual presence of Dr. Dax at the Palace Nocturne smote Martin. It alarmed him. But such an emotion was impossible here.

“Just what do you mean, sir?” he gritted harshly. “Is this a threat?”

“In a way you can consider it so,” nodded the other pleasantly. “For I, you see, am Dr. Dax.”

With a swift motion he raised his hands to his face and tore the mustache and heavy spectacles from his countenance. The features of Xanthus Agosto Debara had become the features of a Satanically smiling, clean-shaven stranger.

It needed not the man’s assertion to establish his declared identity. For the first time in his life Martin was face to face with this sinister being without a mask.

But the lean, dark features, the compelling glitter of those black eyes, the long, slender hands, the no longer concealed and unrepressed magnetism of the man shrieked aloud that this indeed was Dr. Dax.

Celia Debara started up with a wild scream. She cried out only once in horror; and then crumpled to the floor in a swoon. Señora Inez rushed from her corner and knelt beside the body of her mistress.

She raised her head and released a torrent of Portuguese at the metamorphosed professor and father. He replied harshly in the same language, and she cowered fearfully at his words.

Martin was stunned at this appalling turn of events. Who on earth could have foreseen this? Belatedly he leaped to his feet and snatched furiously at his automatic.

His fingers had just gripped it firmly when there was an explosion of light at the back of his head, and everything went black before him. His last conscious thought was of a black and gold chair that leaped into the air and struck down victims of its own accord.

Chapter XLVII “Come with Me!”

Bells — brazen-toned bells, soft-chimed bells, temple bells. Lights — softly flickering lamps in a medieval palace, swinging hurricane lamps on a ship at sea, sharply piercing beams from the shaft of a lighthouse, the ghastly fluttering of a mercury arc.

Voices — whisperings of meaningless phrases, mocking voices, weeping voices, shouting voices, leering voices. And then silence and dark.

A dim glow succeeded the blackness of eternal night, a phosphorescent light that came from nowhere and filled all space. Twilight in purgatory! Alone in illimitable space, surrounded and besieged by legions of unborn phantasms! Lost in the depth of the universe without a guiding spirit!

At thought of a celestial cicerone there loomed out of the distance ahead a vast shape of nebulous matter which grew in size until it appeared like a great mountain which dwarfed the tiny figure on the plain before it.

Glowing with an internal light, this photism assumed the form and features of Dr. Dax. Then spoke this Gargantua of delirium:

“Fred Martin, let me guide you safely out of this chaos. See! All the confusion, the pain, the mocking space is gone at my command.”

It was so. Martin was alone with the mountain.

“You are lost. Come with me. Put yourself in my care and I will make you whole and strong; master of the forces about you. Come with me. You need my aid now, and I can do much for you. Come with me.”

“Come with me!” The very spaces rocked in unison with that compelling, soothing phrase. Unseen trees whispered the three little words, the winds of the world took up the lulling refrain, babbling brooks and sweet-voiced birds sang the impelling command. “Come with me!”

It was the logical thing to do. To fight against the suggestion was pain and agony. Surrender was delicious and restful. It was folly to think otherwise.

It was folly to try to think about anything at all. What mattered it where he was or why he was or who he was? “Come with me!” was the solution of his difficulty.

The little figure on the vast plain before that huge mountain that was the embodiment of Dr. Dax raised its hands in surrender. Even as it did so it was conscious of another influence that interposed.

“No, no, do not surrender!” a new voice fell upon his ear. Rather, it pierced his consciousness in some manner. It was not received in the same way as the voice of the vast photism.

“Señor, you are lost if you go. Do not believe him! Do not heed him! Do not hear him!”

From whence had come this silvery message in a mental voice that he would have recognized anywhere? The little figure on the plain slowly lowered its arms and gazed anxiously about.

“Fred Martin,” broke in the voice of the mountain so insidiously that it was exquisite joy to listen, “the time is at hand. Tarry no longer. Come with me!”

Against the fabric of his mind beat another message.

“Señor, you must not heed him! I beseech you — if only for my sake.”

“Celia! Celia!” he lifted his puny voice in despairing appeal. “Where are you? Do not leave me here alone.”

“ ‘Whither thou goest, I will go.’ Turn your back upon the tempter, señor. I am here with you.”

The tiny figure before the mountain slowly turned about. And there, fluttering in robes of sheerest white, floating lightly above him like an angel, was that beloved form.

“Fred Martin, if you love life, heed me before it is too late. Come with me!”

This time the voice was compelling, overbearing, well-nigh insupportable. No longer was it a soothing, pleading, coaxing influence. It was a command from which the silken sheath had been stripped, baring the threatening chains beneath.

All the angry space of the empty depths writhed and swept in unison down upon him, beating down the barriers of resistance he would have raised to fight that inexorable command. “Come with me!” reverberated from horizon to horizon like mad thunder.

But the figure, the compassionate face of Celia remained constant throughout the turmoil. It was agony, it was torture to struggle against the invisible bonds that the forces of that mighty cicerone threw about him.

It was like fighting through tremendous waves of power which would have dashed him against the mountain, no less malignant because they were invisible. Yet, he struggled onward, his mind fixed on his guiding angel.

He was making headway. His resistance became stronger. He was throwing off the insidious force that had been irresistible.

He was receding from the reach of that vast influence — he was without the pale of that overwhelming attraction — he had fought clear of that deadly danger which Celia seemed to understand better than he. He was free! And the sky became streaked with pain!

Chapter XLVIII Captor and Captive

That a horrible nightmare! What a dream for a perfectly normal young man to have! Fred Martin groaned and returned to consciousness. He was still shivering from the experience, shivering as though he continued to feel a draft from that cosmic cold. He opened his eyes.

He was in a strange bedroom, the morning sunlight shining through two barred windows. One window was open, and the chill, damp February wind was sweeping across his bed. He was uncovered, and his body was drenched with perspiration.

No wonder he had been cold. Teeth chattering, he pulled the bedclothes up about his quivering form. In doing this he made a discovery.

He was dazed, his head was throbbing with a mighty headache, and he was not alone in the room. Seated in a chair beyond the foot of the bed was the elegant figure of Dr. Dax.

Martin raised his head and stared in astonishment.

“You regain consciousness, Señor Martin,” said the doctor in his soothing voice. “I had begun to believe that you had drifted on toward the land of shadows.”

“Wha... what happened to me?” the reporter asked thickly.

“I fear my assistant last night used more strength than judgment.”

“Where am I? And what do you mean?”

“You are now a guest of mine. You ask what I mean? After you had once attempted to take my life, you do not think I would seek you unprepared, surely. When I entered Kingsley Mansions I was well accompanied.

“While your attention was centered on other things one of my assistants entered the room from behind you. It was necessary to subdue you with that crude but effective tool known to the footpad as a blackjack. But let us speak of pleasanter things.”

“Water,” mumbled the man on the bed.

“At your elbow,” replied Dax, waving one reptilian hand. “Also liquor and headache tablets. Show no hesitancy. Nothing is poisoned; nothing is drugged. However, if whisky and aspirin do not ease your pain at once I can do so by mental suggestion.”

“God forbid!” shuddered Martin as he raised himself up and examined the articles on the bedstand.

Dr. Dax laughed softly, but he made no response. While Martin swallowed tablets and liquor, he placed a cigarette in a long holder and proceeded to smoke.

In the light of morning, clad in tailored garments that fitted his slender figure to perfection, he did not present so terrible an appearance. He was dark, he was sinister, yes. But there was little of the horrible about him.

Martin noticed this at once. Heretofore, this individual had seemed to be surrounded by an air of such intensity that to come into his presence was like receiving an electric shock.

While his personality was magnetic, the almost tangible atmosphere of malignant influence he could cast over one was missing. He was more like the figure of the vanished Professor Debara.

Whether Martin had reached the apex of emotional reaction toward this strange being and now close contact blunted the sharpness of the man’s emanations, or whether Dax could control the intensity of his influence on others at will the reporter did not know.

Whatever it was, something had changed in their relationship. At least, it was not a psychical fear of the Brazilian that Martin now experienced.

“I presume you are anxious for an explanation,” Dr. Dax resumed, smiling his Satanic smile as Martin eased himself back to a reclining position.

The reporter stared at his captor.

“I am surprised that you even intimate you would give me one,” he answered.

“You wrong me, Señor Martin. You are entitled to a concise account of the matter. There is much that I have to discuss with you.”

Martin glowered at him.

“You are wasting your time,” he declared shortly through set teeth. “You had just as well murder me now and get it over with. I’m not going to tell you a damned thing.”

“Tut, tut! Such forceful language. I am not asking you for any information, young man. Instead, I shall vouchsafe some. As for murdering you, I have no intention of a such a thing — at present. You are too valuable a man to be wasted in that fashion.

“When I said last night that I must terminate your former activities lest they become detrimental to my purposes I was not contemplating killing you.

“You will note that I speak of your duties, real and fancied, in the past tense. There is a significant reason for this. You are too good a man to be wasting your time on a mere newspaper.”

The other made no reply to this. He was not going to be tricked into giving away what he might know, as he had been last night. He had been the perfect dupe of the pretended Brazilian professor. Fool, not to have guessed at the truth before!

Chapter XLIX Invisible Bondage

Dr. Dax went on after a brief pause:

“Naturally I am the man who had Cavassier telephone your paper that Saturday afternoon. But how was I to know that you would be the man sent out to cover the interview? I was not aware of your existence at that time. It still is not clear to me how you trailed Palmer Hollisworth to the Sustanis.

“No, I do not ask for an explanation just now. I merely comment on your uncanny astuteness. For the entire week of his disappearance he was confined in this house and under constant hypnotic control. If you will glance about your room you will observe that such a chamber was constructed to retain prisoners. The entire house is constructed in the same fashion.

“This was a private sanatorium before I purchased it. I have made few changes in this particular. Thus, even if Hollisworth had not been in a cataleptic state, it would have been impossible for him to communicate with any one not a member of my ménage.

“However, we will pass that point.

“You came forcibly to my attention when you made that capture of Hollisworth. From a mere annoyance you leaped into a dangerous entity.

“By the way, you have this headache as a sort of retribution. Believe me, you richly deserve it. You gave me a terrific one when you banged Palmer Hollisworth’s head against the wall of his stateroom.”

Martin started erect as though he had been jabbed with a needle. He forgot his pain as he stared at the features of the Brazilian. As he stared a growing conviction formed in his mind, a conviction in which there was a touch of the horrible.

“That is who Palmer Hollisworth looked like before he changed back to himself!” he ejaculated. “It was you! It was your very expression he wore!”

“Certainly,” nodded Dax calmly. “Why not? His mind and personality was sleeping. I was animating that body by the power of my will.”

“God! That... that’s impossible!”

“Not to me, my friend. You have a great deal to learn about me. However, returning to Hollisworth, in sending him aboard the Sustanis in that condition I was getting him out of the country in a perfect disguise.

“You wonder why I should take so much interest in a man wanted for murder? He was no longer of use in the diplomatic service. Ah, but he was the sole inheritor of his wife’s estate. I needed that money.

“I was going to work out a plan after I had spirited him away. But I needed him alive — not dead, free — not a prisoner of the law. And you, Fred Martin, were the instrument that interfered with my plans.

“In your struggle with the man you knocked him unconscious — rather it was I whom you knocked unconscious. When I recovered myself I had lost control over my subject.

“As I had not made him susceptible to a state of hynosis by mental suggestion I could not recover the lost ground. All I could do was to suggest to his conscious mind that he drown himself. Thus, by a little oversight in my hypnosis, I am the poorer by a great many millions.

“However, a single mistake is likely to occur; it is the second mistake of the same nature which is inexcusable. You may have noticed last night at the Palace Nocturne that I am correcting this fault with my other subjects.”

At this callous discussion of the deaths of the Hollisworth couple, and that calm reference to the tragic case of Jonathan Rookes, Martin shuddered in loathing and revulsion. This man was a fiend.

“Why do you shudder?” inquired Dax. “Hypnosis is painless. There is an interesting technical side to the case of Palmer Hollisworth which might interest you. A number of my medical contemporaries would give much to study the eccentricities of the case.

“You noted how slow of speech and action Hollisworth was? In fact, it was due to this that you succeeded in capturing him. Otherwise, he would have pistoled two thieves in his cabin.

“The reason is that I have not yet succeeded in seeing with the eyes of my subject or hearing with their ears. This is rather odd, because it is easy to make a subject see with my eyes, hear with my ears, ei cetera.

“However, that perfection will come. The rule will yet work both ways.

“As yet I can but command, knowing I shall be obeyed. But I sit in the dark, learning what is going on about my subject only by reading the thoughts in his mind and then directing his actions.

“I must learn what is taking place before I can direct him intelligently.

“But enough of this. I will attain perfect control — I will master the art in every phase at no distant day in the future.

“You will realize that you had attracted my attention. It is true that your newspaper account anent Hollisworth’s death fooled me for a time. I believed it. However, while you were laying your plans to find me, I was making arrangements to dispose of you.

“You had become inimical to my interests. You will, of course, understand that I do not control hypnotically all the people who work for me. That would be impossible because of their number and their diversified activities if for no other reason.

“Hence, you were just twelve hours ahead of a premature death when we met again in my chamber at the Palace Nocturne.

“It was a great shock to me to find that you were able to resist my power to cause physical attraction. And it was a greater wonder that you were able to fire at me. That, my dear boy, won my admiration.

“You came perilously close to doing for me what I had already directed should be done to you. I decided that I could use you instead of destroying you.

“Whether it was the presence of Celia that gave you the power to resist—”

“Don’t mention her name!” cried Martin in mighty revulsion.

“You ask me not to speak of my own kin? Come, you are childish.”

“Celia is an angel,” declared Martin fiercely.

“And I — am a devil? Tut, tut! These are no longer the dark ages, my boy. You must think of a more modern and apt style of comparison. But we were speaking of you. You have successfully resisted hypnosis.

“This, while unusual with me, is not impossible. Next, you have proven yourself a remarkably clever man. I have need of such as you.”

“What, in God’s name, is your purpose?” gasped out Martin, sick with horror and the calm revelations of the sinister Brazilian. “Why are you doing all this?”

“All this?” Dax raised his eyebrows mockingly. He rose to his feet with the grace of a jungle cat. “You say ‘all this’? Young man, you know nothing as yet. You art not in a physical condition for protracted conversation at the present time. Let me sum the matter up in a nutshell.

“You are inimical to my interests. I do not want to kill you because I can use you. Hence, it becomes a simple problem. You cannot go free. You must cast your lot with me — or you must die! I will give you a little time in which to make this momentous decision.

“I will, of course, furnish you with good reasons for entering my service. In the meantime, let me recommend that you rest and recuperate your strength.”

“Celia? What have you done to her?” cried out the young man in anguish. “And Jonathan Rookes? What are you doing to him? Why did you—”

“You will learn many things if you adhere to me,” cut in Dax coolly. “I will send for you when I wish to see you about this choice. You have taken into—”

“I’ll see you in hell before I’ll even entertain the idea,” Martin cried out violently. “You—”

Dr. Dax held up one hand and fastened his glittering eyes on his prisoner. A terrible gleam shot from his orbs, and Martin felt gripped in an invisible vise that froze his vocal cords into silence.

He found himself unable to move. He was held by the cords of invisible bondage.

“I will call your attention to the fact that you are not immune to certain powers I possess,” Dax said in his vibrant voice.

“Now you calm down and rest. Your breakfast will be served at once. Don’t make the mistake of trying to leave this room until you have received permission. The windows are barred and your door is guarded.”

The speaker clapped his hands sharply. The door opened at once. There stood a hulking giant of a man who bobbed his head respectfully.

“This is your Cerberus,” Dax explained to the speechless man in the bed. “In the course of a day or so, if you prove amiable, you will be allowed the run of the building.

“Calles, you will ring for Mr. Martin’s breakfast now. See that he remains quiet for the rest of the day. Doubtless he will sleep part of the time, but you are to see that his wants and wishes are cared for.”

The man bowed and withdrew from the doorway. At once Martin heard the deep-toned voice of a gong.

Dr. Dax stepped to the door and smiled.

“Until later, señor,” he said.

And the prisoner was alone.

Chapter L MacCray Goes to Work

The ante mortem statement of F. Palmer Hollisworth had far-reaching effects which had not been foreseen. It had sent Fred Martin to the Palace Nocturne and then delivered him into the hands of the master criminal.

It had sent Philip MacCray directly to Andrew Peterman and then plunged him into feverish activity. While it cannot be said that he displayed more zeal than Martin, it was certainly with more care that the detective went about the business of hunting down the man known as Dr. Dax.

Upon leaving Andrew Peterman’s apartment late Sunday afternoon he proceeded directly to police headquarters, where Sergeant Clausen awaited him in quite some anxiety.

Here, after a long consultation which greatly relieved Clausen’s mind. Detective Perry was placed on the trail of the bond broker with emphatic instructions to shadow Peterman day and night. Under no circumstances was he to arrest the man until given the word.

Two good men were sent out to investigate the addresses given MacCray by Peterman as the places where he had met Dr. Dax. A special crew was sent out to tap all of the bond broker’s telephones, with instructions to listen constantly for a message from Dr. Dax and to trace the call.

A special detail of detectives waited at the central office to speed out to the place from whence the call originated.

“And what are you going to do?” Clausen asked MacCray after all these matters had been arranged. “Go out and look over the Palace Nocturne?”

“I am going to my hotel and go to bed,” yawned the little detective evasively. “I’ve been going for a night and two days. Even a detective must sleep some time.”

“Then, hadn’t I better throw a cordon around the casino and investigate it for you?”

MacCray’s jaws closed with a snap.

“Don’t you do one thing more than I have just outlined,” he said crisply. “Forget the gambling house and the identity of Carl Monte. I don’t want our bird flushed or alarmed the least bit. I’ll report to you some time to-morrow. If you get a line on Dax, merely hold the house under observation until I see you. S’long.”

Thus matters settled down to the monotony of tiresome routine work. Everything seemed to progress smoothly enough until Monday evening at the supper hour. Sergeant Clausen was just making ready to go home to a nice, hot supper when he was called to the telephone. It was Wilson, city editor of the Times-Journal.

“Say, Clausen,” he said in no uncertain terms, “where in hell is Fred Martin? I’m paying him to spend a little time on this newspaper, you know. I don’t ask much — just that he come in and tell me good morning before he reports to you for the day’s assignment on the police force. Do you think I am unreasonable in my demands?

“Of course, I wouldn’t think of inconveniencing you—” this was biting irony — “but, dammit, he’s left us up in the air now on even the Hollisworth case. I detailed him to that, I let you commandeer all of Tracy’s negatives, I’ve stood for suppression of news so that you could work on the case secretly, I — God knows I’ve the patience of Job, but there is a limit—”

“What do you mean you’re in the air?” countered Clausen. “You’ve had more dope on this case than all the other papers together. I’ve made mortal enemies out of ten thousand newspaper men over this affair — they’ve had to copy the Times-Journal. You had more stuff in to-night’s paper than anybody else. You’re just lucky and don’t know it.”

“Is that so?” growled Wilson sourly. “Clifton had to rehash yesterday’s story for to-night’s paper. What I want to know is where Marlin is. I haven’t seen or heard a thing of him since yesterday morning. What’s he doing? Who’s this guy MacCray he talks about?”

“What? Since yesterday morning?” Clausen was startled.

“That’s what I said. Now what I want to know is whether he is working on this paper any more or not. Is he now on the city pay roll?”

“Wilson. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you a thing about Martin just now. He — he’s out on the case. I’ll have him call you the moment he comes in.”

“This is one helluva note,” rumbled Wilson, faintly mollified. “He hasn’t been near this office since yesterday morning, and he hasn’t been home since yesterday afternoon.”

“I’ll get in touch with him right away,” promised the sergeant, in a queer voice. “Take it easy until you have something worth fussing about. I’ll call you later.”

The detective sergeant hung up the receiver and turned sharply to an assistant.

“Send a man out to Belmont Inn to pick up Martin’s trail,” he snapped out. “Tell him to freeze to it until he finds him.” He turned to the desk sergeant. “Has MacCray called in yet?”

The officer shook his head.

“Call his hotel,” directed Clausen. “I want to see him badly. Tell him that Fred Martin has disappeared.”

The desk sergeant whistled in significant dismay as he made a notation on his blotter.

“You think—” he inquired, pausing wordlessly as he lifted his telephone.

“I don’t know what to think,” clipped out Clausen.

There was a considerable wait. Finally the officer hung up his receiver.

“I can’t get him,” he said at length. “He hasn’t been seen at his hotel since Sunday morning.”

“What!” ejaculated the startled Clausen. “Why, he was here last night just before going to his hotel. I wonder if he and Martin — no they weren’t together. Send a man over to the hotel to investigate. Something has gone wrong. Try to find MacCray.

“Get in touch with Perry and the others and see if they’ve heard from him. He was to call me to-day. I’ll run out to a restaurant for a bite to eat. Call my wife and tell her I won’t be home until late tonight. I’ll be right back.”

It was true enough that something had gone wrong. But it had gone wrong with Fred Martin, not with Philip MacCray. The amazing story of Andrew Peterman had impressed the detective greatly.

He realized that if he had ever crossed blades with a foeman worthy of his steel Dr. Dax was that man. And if Dax was so careful in covering his own trail it naturally followed that he was greatly interested in police activities.

This was a sobering thought. MacCray never made the mistake of underestimating an opponent. While it seemed positive that his name and identity and purpose in Washington remained unknown to all except a chosen few, it was not impossible for him to be under the observation of the unknown Dr. Dax without being aware of it.

If he wanted to be certain that his movements were not followed, the proper thing to do was to disappear.

Hence, after placing all of his painfully gathered information in the hands of Sergeant Clausen so the latter could proceed in case of accident to him, and mapping out the moves of the police on the Hollisworth-Dax case for the ensuing forty-eight hours, he left the Municipal Building without giving Clausen an inkling of his intention. Ostensibly he was on his way to bed.

In fact, he was on his way to bed, but not in the manner the sergeant supposed. He walked in through a side entrance of the hotel and stalked on into the kitchen without stopping for an interrogation.

Ducking past amazed waiters and an annoyed chef, he slipped out through the back entrance, filching a coat and hat as he did so. No sooner had he reached the darkness of the alley than he removed his own stylish derby and topcoat and tucked them in a convenient ashcan.

He could not repress a shudder as he thought of the havoc he had wrought to the wearing apparel, but his fastidiousness did not prevent him from slipping into the disfiguring garments he had appropriated and hastening out on the street.

A convenient taxi — a walk — another taxi — a second-hand store where the proprietor slept upstairs and was not averse to doing a little business Sunday night — a third taxi whose driver was willing to find a more reputable clothier — a room engaged in a cheap lodging house out on Thirteenth Street — midnight and a doped taxi driver who, after an exchange of coat and hat, was deposited in the rented room to sleep it off — and Mr. Philip MacCray had been obliterated.

In his stead was a nondescript taxi driver, nameless, and with a tonneau of such unusual articles as a bicycle, a pair of binoculars, a change of garments, and so forth.

Mr. MacCray did sleep that night. And. considering the discomfort of his bed and surroundings, he slept very soundly. His taxi pulled toward the fence of a side road a scant quarter of a mile from the main thoroughfare and the same distance from the Palace Nocturne, curled up on the floor of his purloined cab, he snored peacefully under his laprobe until the sky became streaked with the pink and gray fingers of dawn.

Chapter LI A Mission of Mystery

At once MacCray was astir. He munched a cold sandwich and changed his clothes for a suit of rough tweeds and a baggy cap. Slinging the binoculars over his shoulder, he mounted his wheel and pedaled on down the side road.

At length, finding no cross trail in the gray dawn, he reluctantly turned off the road and lifted his machine over the fence. Trundling it beside him, he plowed his way-through the mud and unmelted snow to a point behind the gambling casino.

From here he made his way forward until he encountered the wall which surrounded the place. He followed it until he reached a point close to the main road.

Here he hid his bicycle in the underbrush and climbed a young pine tree which he had selected as offering him the greatest protection and at the same time permitting an unobstructed view of the grounds of the Palace Nocturne.

Settling himself for a long wait, he adjusted his binoculars and trained them on the darkened house.

As the morning light grew stronger traffic increased along the main road, but the great colonial structure remained dark and inhospitable. However, MacCray waited patiently.

At length the front door was opened and a group of people came out of the place, entered a car which had been waiting all night, and were whisked away home to their beds.

The wet and bedraggled man in the tree studied this occurrence through his lenses, but he made no attempt to follow the car.

At last a little touring car of popular make and ancient vintage rattled along the highway and turned into the drive. It shivered to a halt within plain view of the detective, and its driver got out. Through his glasses MacCray studied the man.

He saw him open the tonneau door of his little car and shoulder a case, apparently of eggs, which he carried to a back entrance.

There was an interval of waiting, and then the same fellow reappeared with another crate on his back. This time he walked heavily and with obvious effort.

The detective noticed this.

“Hmmm — he went in with an empty case and comes out with a full one,” he deduced. “I guess I’ll take a chance on this fellow this morning.”

He quickly put away his plasses and descended to the ground. Trundling his wheel out onto the main road, he mounted and pedaled back toward the crossroad down which stood his stolen taxi.

When the driver of the little touring car rattled past the side road he observed nothing more interesting than a morning cyclist pumping up one of his tires with a hand pump.

He drove by with but a casual glance, whistling merrily as he opened his throttle so his little machine could snort easily up the slight incline ahead.

Had the man stopped on the brow of the hill and looked back he would have frowned at the peculiar actions of the cyclist. Under the cover of his arm MacCray had made sure that this was the man of the egg crates.

To his surprise, he observed that the man’s features bore a passing resemblance to his own. He had already noted the similarity of size and build through the binoculars.

“Redding!” he decided swiftly, exultantly. “It can be no other. Now I know I’m on the trail of the right man.”

He stared quickly at the license plate and the general battered appearance of the car as the thing passed. No sooner had the vehicle disappeared over the little hill than he mounted his wheel and pedaled furiously down the side road.

Reaching the taxicab, he bundled his bicycle into the tonneau and hastily changed his cap and coat for the garments of the drugged taxi driver.

Starting the machine, pulling out the choke and racing the motor to warm it quickly, he set out in pursuit of the other car.

He drove at a reckless speed in order not to lose his man. He overtook the car with the egg crate on Connecticut Avenue as it was passing Zoological Park.

Slowing down, weaving carefully through the increasing traffic, he followed along through Dupont Circle, onto New Hampshire Avenue, and then west on Pennsylvania.

On straight through Georgetown the chase led, out on the road toward Glen Echo and Cabin John. Here traffic thinned again and MacCray was forced to fall farther behind.

The smaller car was perhaps half a mile ahead when it turned to the right and chugged up a steep hill. When MacCray reached the turn-off he found it to be a private road.

Glancing up the incline, he observed the roof of a large building which was set somewhat back among trees and shrubbery. He drove on without turning and without the slightest hesitation.

However, a few hundred yards on he stopped the cab and got out. Leaving the machine, and armed with his binoculars once more, he set out on foot. Climbing the rising ground to the right of the road, he plunged into the woods and made his way toward the building on the hill.

“If this is not the place Redding was going,” he reason to himself as he panted along, “at least I have trailed him this far. In the morning I can lie in wait here and trail him the rest of the way. Beastly thaw! This mud is terrible!”

He finally drew near the grounds of the house on the hill. He could not enter without climbing a sturdy wire fence. However, he had no wish to get so close to the building. From a safe distance he studied the place, making a complete circuit of it.

It was a large, rather imposing structure of dark sandstone finish. There were several out-buildings which he understood after due consideration. From various vantage points he examined the place with his binoculars.

But he spent the rest of the morning without observing any signs of life. The place lay placid and quiescent.

However, unless the little flivver of Redding’s had spread wings and flown it had certainly stopped at this place. Beyond the building the road became nothing but a muddy trail. Upon crossing this the detective had examined the ground carefully. No automobile had passed along here this morning.

As two of those outer buildings were garages it was plausible to presume that Redding had put his car in one of them. At least there was no sign of the little car about the grounds.

In the early afternoon, having exhausted his scrutiny of the place on the hill overlooking Georgetown, he made his way back to his taxi.

Calmly appropriating it from under the inquisitive gaze of a motor cycle officer who had found it there, he backed it around. The policeman scratched his chin reflectively at this cool insouciance.

“Excuse me,” he said, holding up his hand, “but before you drive off, buddy, suppose you tell me what you did with the lady friend? Did she run off through the woods?

“Wouldn’t even ride the bicycle you brought along to keep her from walkin’ home, eh? Had to hunt for her with field glasses, huh?”

MacCray bristled.

“I never did like smart cops!” he snapped shortly. “Ask your questions like a policeman — not like a comedian.”

“An’ I don’t like fresh guys,” retorted the motor officer promptly. “This cab has been standin’ here for hours — I’ve had my eye on it. An’ a bicycle an’ a change of clothes makes a funny combination inside.

“Let’s you an’ me ride on down to th’ station an’ hold a confab with th’ desk serg. Get goin’, buddy. You got a mean eye.” And the speaker’s hand dropped to the butt of his pistol.

“Let’s see you go on about your business,” rejoined MacCray tersely, reaching into his pocket and bringing forth his shield. “Take a good squint at this and be on your way. And keep your mouth shut!”

The officer stared at the badge of the detective incredulously. Then he scratched his head uncertainly as he took in the details of the taxi and the stuff in the back seat. However, the light in the detective’s eye convinced him.

“You’re a queer fish,” he finally conceded. “What were you doing up in the woods? What are you doing with this taxi?”

“All that is none of your business. But you can answer a question for me. What building is that up on the hill?”

“That is the Standing Sanatorium.”

“Public or private?”

“Private.”

“Is it in operation?”

“I think not, sir. How does it happen that you do not know this yourself?”

“For the same reason that your coat is partly unbuttoned,” answered MacCray curtly. “I simply was not aware of it.” The officer glanced down in some confusion, and the detective slammed his car into gear and shot away toward the city. The motor cycle policeman did not pursue.

He drove back to Washington and to the rooming house on Thirteenth Street just in time to find the taxi driver recovering from his drugged condition. Replacing the man’s coat and hat, giving him a dose of medicine to restore him quickly, he thrust a twenty dollar bill into the fellow’s hand and led him out to his car.

Then he trundled his bicycle up to the house and entered, leaving the taxi driver to stare after him dazedly.

As he bathed and donned fresh garments MacCray was in a deep study. Having consulted a city directory and a map of Washington he had found the motor officer’s information about the Georgetown house to be accurate.

The place was the private sanatorium of Dr. Trelor Standing, an eminent nerve specialist. After dressing himself he ascertained the fact that Dr. Standing had offices on Pennsylvania Avenue.

It was now time to interview Dr. Standing.

But Dr. Standing was not to be interrogated. He had sold his practice to Dr. LaClede and his sanatorium to some one else and had taken himself off to Europe. He had left no forwarding address, although Dr. LaClede was under the impression that he had gone to Vienna.

Further investigation showed that the sanatorium was still listed as the property of Dr. Standing; the new owner had not yet recorded his deed. Examination of passport records proved beyond a doubt that a passport had been issued to Trelor Standing several months previous.

From the description and photograph it was obvious that there was no connection between Dr. Dax and Dr. Standing, save the possible one of a business transaction — or complicity. They were certainly two distinct and separate men.

It became more and more obvious that the Brazilian was a very wily customer.

MacCray considered his next step as he ate supper. The obvious thing to do was to get inside that sanatorium and examine it. If Dr. Dax had made the place his headquarters it was going to be a difficult task unless the police made a raid. And a raid was the last thing MacCray wanted to have take place.

He turned the matter of Mr. Redding over and over in his mind. He considered the man from a great many interesting angles. An idea was forming in his head that became more and more pleasing as the details fell into place.

The question was, could Redding be apprehended and pumped for information? If so, would he be likely to have any news of worthwhile importance? If it were only known whether or not the fellow had a police record! Personally, MacCray had never run across the man before.

There was one man who might be able to give him a clew about Redding. This was Peterman. After having gone through all the maneuvers of the night before to lose contact with all who knew him it seemed like a shame to place himself voluntarily in touch with the bond broker or the police.

But subsequent plans altered cases. He made arrangements to visit Andrew Peterman.

Chapter LII Time to Act

Right under the nose of Detective Perry he entered the broker’s apartment house without being recognized. But Perry was not to be censured because he failed to recognize the immaculate MacCray in the gawky messenger boy with the rather large head who rode his bicycle along the street through the twilight in such lethargic fashion that it seemed as though each effort must be his last.

Even Glepen, who answered the door, failed at first to recognize the detective. He attempted to bar the way before the impudent youth who insisted on shoving his truculent person into the reception room before he would deliver his message.

“The master is not to be disturbed, lad,” said Glepen in annoyance. “I will deliver your message. Hand it here at once.”

“No, you won’t deliver my message, Glepen,” declared MacCray calmly, closing the hall door tightly behind him. “You’re an admirable Hermes, but you won’t do in the present case. Take me to Mr. Peterman at once.”

“MacCray!” exclaimed the valet in consternation. “You will pardon me for not recognizing you, sir. Certainly, sir. Right this way at once, sir.”

And thus it was, nearly twenty-four hours later, that MacCray learned of the amazing events which had taken place Sunday night at the casino and what Glepen knew of Martin’s subsequent actions.

For the time being he forgot all about Redding and his own activities of the day.

“So you were talking with Carlyle in the office at the Casino,” said MacCray to Peterman, “when you heard the shots? What did you do then? Tell me exactly what took place.”

“He had just told me that Dr. Dax was in the room with Jonathan Rookes. At the sound of firing Hawkins and several other servants rushed into the office. A number of the patrons came down from above. Every one seemed to think it was a police raid.

“I did not dare let any one go into that private chamber. So we herded them all out of the office and back upstairs. Some of them were nervous and wanted to go. Carlyle and I went back to the front door and passed them out quietly.

“Among the most frantic were Cavassier of the Brazilian Embassy and Professor Debara, who was the father of the girl Martin took away with him.

“When we had restored order and had time to look into the room where those shots had been fired we found it empty. Dax and Rookes had gone.

“I was in an awful state of excitement until Glepen returned and told me that Martin had been responsible for the shots and that no one had been hurt.

“Mr. Rookes appeared at the Capitol this morning quite as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened to him.”

The detective turned sharply on Glepen again.

“You say that Martin told you he saw Dax hypnotize the vice president?”

“Precisely, sir,” nodded Glepen.

“I’ll have to question Martin right away about that,” decided MacCray.

He grasped the telephone and called police headquarters. It was Sergeant Clausen who answered the instrument.

“Clausen? I’m looking for Martin,” he said to the sergeant. “I want to see him in a hurry. You know where he is right now?”

“MacCray? Is this MacCray? Great God, man! Where have you been all day? I’ve been looking for you. Fred Martin has disappeared. I haven’t got a thing on him since he left the Belmont Inn yesterday afternoon.”

“So? What are the reports of the various men?”

“Absolutely nothing,” informed the sergeant. “Flourney and Jackson are still trying to trace matters from those two addresses. So far — nothing. No telephone calls to trace.

“Perry just called in and told me that his man is evidently communicating with his chief by telegram. A messenger boy just went up with a message. He wanted to know whether or not to intercept the boy on his way out.”

“He’d better not try it,” chuckled MacCray. “I’m the messenger boy. And I am talking over the apartment phone right now.

“If our men are not asleep at their listening post you’ll get a call in a very few minutes reporting this very conversation. S’long.”

“Hey! Wait! What do you want me to do? When can I see you?”

“Stay where you are,” directed MacCray. “I’ll be down to see you before midnight. Don’t make a single move until then. If I fail to show up by that time, act according to your own judgment.

“G’by — say! While you are waiting for me send a couple of men over to the Brazilian Embassy and pick up Cavassier. Have him there at headquarters when I get there. S’long.”

He hung up the receiver and turned crisply to Peterman and Glepen.

“I want to talk to both of you before morning,” he said sharply. “I must go now. Wait for a ring from me.”

As he was mounting his wheel down in the street a hand reached out of the shadows and fell on his shoulder.

“Step around the corner of the building, my lad,” said Perry’s voice. “And don’t make a sound if you expect your mamma to tuck you in bed to-night.”

Willingly MacCray followed. He did not wait for the other to question him. As soon as they reached the denser shadow of the wall he whispered sharply:

“Have you got a car near here. Perry?”

The other started at the sound of his voice.

“Who the devil?”

“MacCray. Have you an automobile hereabouts?”

“Er... yes,” stammered Perry uncertainly. “It’s... er... the roadster around the block.”

“I must borrow it for a time. Give me the key. I’ll leave you my bicycle.”

“Well. I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Mr. Perry in hearty disgust. “If I’d known this I’d have hidden from you.”

“Never mind. I’ll be back by here for you. I’m in a hurry just now.”

Having successfully traded a bicycle for a motor car, MacCray drove quickly out to the Debara apartment at Kingsley Mansions. He found the place locked and deserted. He did not seem greatly surprised.

However, he wasted no time in forcing an entrance. Kingsley Mansions not being quite the elaborate establishment Kensington Mansions was, there was no night man to offer information — or to hinder him.

At once he noticed the signs of a hasty departure. A moment later he discovered the little pool of dried blood on the rug where Martin had been struck down.

At this he frowned and proceeded to make a careful study of the apartment. An hour later he picked up the telephone and called police headquarters.

“MacCray speaking,” he said cripsly to Sergeant Clausen. “Have you got Cavassier?”

“No,” was the worried answer, an answer that MacCray now expected. “Cavassier left early Sunday evening and he hasn’t been back to the Embassy since. Shall I list him as missing along with Martin?”

“Right,” snapped MacCray. “And add to your list the names of Professor Debara and his daughter Celia. Also, a serving woman of middle age and a male secretary to the professor — all four of them South Americans.”

“How’s that?” gasped Clausen in amazement. “What does all this mean?”

“It means,” answered MacCray, grimly ferocious, “that it is time for me to go to work.”

Chapter LIII The Mad Colossus

On the second day of his imprisonment his hulking guard was removed and Fred Martin was permitted the liberty of the upper floors of the establishment where he was held captive.

As the days passed, interminable days they were, he gradually learned all there was to know about his prison.

There were three floors to the sanatorium. Of the upper two — his domain — every exterior opening window was barred. Immediately he set about planning to escape.

In the meantime, since he was confined here, he did his best to learn everything about his captor.

He had gone over the details of the amazing case of Dr. Dax carefully many times and had, as yet, reached no sane or logical conclusion. The matter of Jonathan Rookes was most perplexing. The brief explanation vouchsafed by the Brazilian had not included a reason for his actions.

That there was a far deeper motive than the acquisition of wealth was obvious in the fact that Dax continued his activities after having gained the Hollisworth millions. And no effort was made to prevent Martin from understanding that a great deal went on downstairs.

Of Dr. Dax himself the reporter saw nothing after that one first visit Monday morning. The stolid Mr. Calles supplied the prisoner with a change of linens and lounged against the bathroom door casing for ten minutes each morning while Martin shaved himself with a safety razor.

Then he locked even this poor tool away from his prisoner and took his departure, leaving Martin to a monotonous day which was broken only by the serving of his meals.

He could not complain of his food. It was evident that, whatever his fate was to be, he was not to be starved to death. But none of the servants he came to know would enter into conversation with him.

The hulking guards at the two staircases leading down to the first floor refused to give him any information.

There was nothing to do except roam through the lengthy corridors and explore the two upper floors. Each room had a bed, a chair, a heavy bureau, and a steam radiator. This was all.

There were no books, no tables, no rugs, not even a picture on the walls. The place was still the barren and meagerly furnished hospital that Dax had bought. He had spoken truly when he said that he had made few changes in this particular.

There were three bathrooms on each floor, but all the fixtures and fittings had been securely bolted and fastened in place. Nowhere did he find anything which could be converted into a weapon or a tool. Escape seemed impossible.

There were some fifteen or twenty rooms on the third floor which were sleeping quarters for various servants. One by one he investigated these, but found nothing suitable to his purpose, and no information.

On the second floor, his floor, several rooms were devoted to the use of Calles and others whose activities kept them busy downstairs. These rooms were kept locked by their occupants.

There was one other door which was kept closed and locked. This was the door to the east wing where, Martin at length deduced, had once been the operating rooms of the hospital. On the third floor the east wing was open to his inspection.

It was such a ridiculous situation to be in. All this freedom of movement, and no opportunities for escape. There was nothing to do except stare out through the barred windows and think.

He spent many tedious hours in this manner, standing first at one window and then another on both second and third floors. He gazed out over the grounds and the rooftops of Georgetown, watching the sparrows and the early robins, envying the most insignificant creature that was free, and all the time scheming, planning, thinking... thinking—

Cars and people came and went at all hours of the day and night. From his aerie he was unable to recognize any of them, if, indeed, he knew any of the doctor’s visitors.

There was much bustle and some little confusion in these arrivals and departures. However, he quickly came to recognize what little order there was in these activities. There was the egg man, for instance.

Every morning about nine o’clock — he had learned to estimate the time by the sun and by his meals: his watch lay on his dresser at the Belmont Inn, where he had left it Sunday after its bath in the Potomac River — a little touring car chugged into the grounds. A man would get out and carry into the building a crate of eggs, then put the little car in one of the garages.

One morning, Thursday it must have been, he was two or three hours late, but thereafter he was as regular as clockwork. This man turned out to be a chap by the name of Redding.

He did not have a room upstairs, although he seemed to live on the place. He would start out after eggs at six in the morning. Allowing him thirty minutes to purchase them, which was ample time, it meant a trip of at least an hour and a quarter each way.

Martin sighed as he imagined the different places he could get to in that length of time.

From the movements of Redding he turned to spend a great deal of time figuring how many persons had to be on the place in order to consume thirty dozen eggs daily. This got him nowhere, but it helped to pass the time. He was beginning to show the strain of his confinement.

And all this while he heard nothing. Where was Celia? What had happened to her since that Sunday night she had been overcome with horror at the discovery that her father was the infamous Dr. Dax?

Was she also a prisoner somewhere in this great building? Or had she known about her father all the time? Had she screamed out merely in fear because he had revealed himself to Martin?

Never! Martin would not admit this possibility. Celia had not been aware of the awful identity of her parent. But was she now reconciled to the matter and concerned only about her father’s safety? Or did she ever think of Martin? Was she as anxious to get word of him as he was to hear about her?

He felt that he would go mad unless he was given some sort of news. It was like being in a living tomb. That Dr. Dax was purposely keeping him in this suspense to wear down his resistance he did not pause to consider. Had he done so it would not have alleviated his anxiety.

He was slowly reaching a frantic state, trembling on the edge of senseless and futile violence. He had already passed through the preceding stages of the various emotions. Mad and unreasoning physical revolt was the inevitable next step.

He was on the verge of running amuck when there came a change.

He was striding up and down the floor of his room one night — he had long since lost count of the days — working himself up to a desperate fury, when he heard a wild scream from some point in the lower part of the building.

There was the slamming of a massive door, and then one sharp pistol report stabbed through the night. In the silence that followed he found he was trembling like an aspen leaf.

Ignorance of what was taking place made his imagination run riot. He did not sleep that night. Morning found him haggard and half mad. Another week, and he would have been in a condition to bargain in any fashion with his captor.

Calles came in to lead him to the bathroom for his morning shave. The symptoms of approaching violence, if he saw them, he ignored.

“Hurry, señor, you are to be taken to Dr. Dax.”

This was all the information he would impart. Unable to pump anything further out of him, Martin hastened with his toilet and was eagerly ready to be taken before his captor.

Calles led him down past the guard at the front stairway and into a room that made the captive blink. Without a further word, his guard pointed across the chamber and then withdrew.

Chapter LIV Two Kinds of Fear

It was an oblong chamber of exceeding richness. Whatever the condition of the rooms above. Dr. Dax had spared no expense on the furnishings of his own quarters.

Rich velvets of crimson formed the window draperies. A beautiful Persian rug covered the floor. The shades were drawn, and soft lights glowed from pedestal lamps which were draped with throws of sheerest silk gauze of delicate hues.

Chairs and divans, buried under a multitude of languorous satin pillows, abounded. It was the lounge of a Sybarite. And in an armchair at the far end sat the immaculate figure of Dr. Dax.

The Brazilian was clad in garments of rich black. This was relieved by a white silk scarf about his neck. The contrast between the two men was all the more sharp because of the fact that Martin had worn his present garb for the entire period of his imprisonment.

His clothes looked more like the garments of a laborer than the semiformal costume of a gentleman. He was a far cry from the alert young man who had visited the Palace Nocturne many nights ago.

“Be seated, Señor Martin,” waved his captor, indicating a chair.

“Why have you held me and refused to see me?” burst out Martin angrily. “What is the idea of all this suspense?”

“Wait! Wait!” said Dax crisply. “Don’t be impetuous. Consider the sad case of Señor Cavassier.”

“What about Cavassier?”

“Poor fellow! He tired of my company and tried to escape last night.”

It was the way Dax said this that made Martin shudder. His imagination filled in the details.

“As I intimated to you some mornings ago,” went on the Brazilian calmly, “I have something to offer to you. I would regret to see you join Cavassier. But, first, I have something to show you. Come.”

He arose and stepped toward a curtained doorway.

“Come,” he repeated. “No harm shall befall you. But do not attempt violence of any sort, as the house is well guarded. Step here, if you please.”

Slowly Martin arose and drew near. Dr. Dax parted the draperies with a graceful hand and motioned for his captive to pass through. After a glance into his face Martin did so.

His conductor pressed a wall switch, and the room in which he found himself sprang out of the shadows.

It was a small chamber which was draped after the fashion of the black room at the Palace Nocturne. In the center of the floor was a raised couch, which was also draped in black. And on this couch lay the figure of Celia Debara, clad in a robe of purest white.

Her arms were folded across her breast. Her face was pale under the light, and there was not the least sign of respiration.

Martin recoiled at the sight, and then flung himself forward on his knees.

“Celia! Celia!” he cried in anguish. “Oh, God, she is dead!”

He placed his hands on her face and found it cold and firm as marble. Her lips were faintly blue, and her form was perfectly rigid. He sought to arouse her.

He attempted to move her arms, to no avail. He chafed her cold hands. He caressed her raven hair. And then he bowed his head, burying his face in her fragrant tresses, and sobbed unrestrainedly.

Dr. Dax stood near the doorway with folded arms and gazed on the scene with expressionless face. He made no attempt to interfere with the young man’s actions. He waited a long time with the patience of a sphinx.

At last Martin’s emotion subsided. Then the other spoke.

“Calm yourself,” he said. “Tell me, do you love her very much?”

Martin could not repress the groan which rose to his lips.

“I’d die for her,” he uttered huskily.

“Romeo and Juliet,” murmured Dax.

Martin turned on him savagely. At once he held up a warning hand.

“Control your emotions,” he commanded. “She is not dead, nor is she likely to die. She is merely in a state of suspended animation. The ultimate result rests entirely with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I first want you to understand how utterly in the hollow of my hand do I hold all that is most dear to you. Ts there any doubt in your mind on this score?”

“You... you fiend!” choked Martin. “I could kill you!”

“You could not,” contradicted Dax. “Never mind the vindictive desire. Do you comprehend your, and Celia’s, predicament?”

“You... you would not think of harming Celia to play upon me. No matter what you may think of doing to me!”

“Your remark lacks conviction. Furthermore, you do not know me, my friend. Did not Napoleon put away his wife? Did not — but this is beside the question. Do you understand the extent of the power I wield over your happiness?”

Martin bowed his head without speaking.

“Come,” said Dr. Dax. “Come back into the other room. She does not know you are here. Sit down, Mr. Martin. Are you ready now to listen to my little proposition?”

Martin dropped heavily into an easy chair in the outer chamber.

“What is it?” he demanded lifelessly.

“Ah, that is a more amiable frame of mind. Gaze about you. Surely you have noted the difference between this room and the barren quarters upstairs. It is very great.

“But this difference is negligible compared to your own present state and that which I shall offer you. In brief, while you must choose between serving me or death, I have much to offer you.

“It is not merely the power I hold over Celia that I use to win you: that is the’ most insignificant phase of the matter. In reward for allying yourself with my cause I offer you the position of a lieutenant in my organization — with the opportunity of advancement if your ability continues at the pace you have already shown.

“With the coming of my full control you will find yourself a veritable potentate, a man with the power of an ancient king. Think of it! An ancient king’s power in a modern world! You will offer allegiance to but one master — myself. And that will be voluntary allegiance.

“Glory and power! Riches and fame! But such promises can only be fulfilled in the future. To attain them you must work for me now.

“You have proven yourself a capable young man. To some extent you have successfully resisted my hypnotic power. Understand, I can get along comfortably without you, but I can also use you.

“It is never my method to destroy wantonly a useful man. Only upon your utter refusal to accept the gifts I offer shall you be put out of the way.”

“What... what is it you are offering me?” stammered Martin in perplexity.

“A position as head of one of the ten great divisions of the earth. There will be but ten nations as soon as I control the world. Can you conceive of a project so vast as a world empire?

“There is nothing original in such a thought. There was Hannibal, Alexander, Charlemagne, Napoleon — and others. But I am the first man who can, and shall, found such a dynasty.”

“You? A murderer talking of world empires?” gurgled Martin.

The face of Dr. Dax became dark with fury.

“The term ‘murderer’ means nothing to me as a mere term,” he stated succinctly. “But when you use the word as an epithet I must correct you.

“Do you call the American revolutionists murderers? No! Do you call war between nations a crime punishable by the electric chair or the gallows? No!

“And yet these epochal events were a great deal bloodier than my type of revolution. Because I do not kill on a wholesale scale you would call me a murderer? Fool! It is all in the point of view, my young friend. And remember this, the man who wins is always right.”

“But... but you did kill Palmer Hollissworth,” accused Martin.

“I suppose you may lay his death to me. Add that of his wife also, if you wish. And that of Cavassier. But what are three deaths, what are a thousand deaths in the balance against the mighty empire I am creating.

“How many million beings were slaughtered in the recent World War, and to what purpose? When I control the world there will be no more wars. When I control the earth man will be unified in one compact species without waste, without loss, without confusion. When I control the earth—”

“When you control the earth?” Martin was able to grasp just a little of the Brazilian’s conversation at a time. “Are you mad?”

Dr. Dax smiled. Martin shuddered all over. It was such a confident smile. As wild as the madman’s words may have been there was something of ghastly conviction in that Satanic grin.

“Perhaps I am mad,” he said calmly. “What of it? So were Balboa, Columbus, the Greek philosophers, the inventors of all the ages — every dreamer who accomplished anything was considered wholly mad by the stolid and unimaginative masses and was a trifle mad in reality.

“You wonder why I tell you all this? Because you have shown that you have imagination. You have courage. You are not easily frightened at magnitude. You will make an ideal assistant for me. And so far I have found but two others — the two who are the only real masters of the Continental nations.”

“Are you trying to tell me that they are — are creatures of yours? I don’t believe you’ve ever seen them.”

“You fool! I have thousands of people scattered about the world who work for me — who are directly in my pay — and who have never seen me. It takes fortunes to finance their activities.

“That is why I must have money, why I must stoop and waste time with such people as Palmer Hollisworth. The day, however, is rapidly approaching when I will not have to work in secret and snatch at money clandestinely.

“No, I do not say that these two leaders are hypnotic subjects of mine. Neither do I say they are hired puppets. But they are men of vision whom I shall lead to greater heights.

“One man alone, Fred Martin, cannot control each working part of a great whole. I must have an organization, and that I am building. I cannot stop to hypnotize every person who meets my need. The process would take too long. It would be too exhausting upon my strength.

“When the time comes I shall dominate these two men and lead them to higher places than they now aspire to win. There must, of necessity, be others. You are young, but your ability is great. Do you want to be one of these others? Perhaps one of these two? For if I cannot use them I shall have to destroy them.”

“Either of these men would laugh at you if you were to approach them with your extremely mad schemes,” pointed out Martin.

“They would laugh at Dr. Dax, late of Brazil, yes. But they will not laugh at the dictator of the Americas!”

Martin started. Here, indeed, was the veriest of lunatics with whom he had ever had to deal. He was in the hands of a maniac.

His fear of the man, while it changed from one form to another, became no less acute. The fiendish Brazilian read his thoughts with ease. He laughed faintly with amusement.

Chapter LV An Invisible Wall

“Unquestionably I am mad,” he smiled coolly. “I have already conceded this point. But my schemes are hardly those of a vacillating idiot. Have you forgotten Jonathan Rookes?”

A thrill of horror pierced Martin as he remembered what he had seen that night — it seemed ages ago — at the Palace Nocturne.

Mad though this man undoubtedly was, he was a sinister figure who actually possessed a malignant power that he was applying to his awful ends. There were tangible results of his capable madness.

“What... what has Rookes to do with your plans?” He hardly recognized his own voice.

“Mr. Rookes is next in line for the presidency of your country,” smiled Dax. “I had to content myself with gaining the ascendancy over the vice-president as it was impossible to reach the person of your president and still maintain the necessary secrecy.

“Mr. Rookes is completely under my control. And he is no longer aware of this fact. He has forgotten my existence.”

The inevitable next thought stunned Martin. He went numb with horror. Assassination of the president! But was this possible to even the redoubtable Dr. Dax? The demon smiled again.

“I wonder if I have underrated your mental capacity,” he mused thoughtfully. “You seem sluggish this morning. But no matter. If you are weak you shall die. For the present you need more proof, do you?”

“Have you forgotten that to-morrow the president is to make a special airplane trip over the city? Or did you know this?”

The reporter nodded dumbly.

“The name of the pilot of the plane, if you recall?” pursued Dax.

“Major Rodchell — of the air service,” almost whispered Martin.

“Right,” agreed Dax, tapping a triangle which was suspended from a stand at his side.

Before the musical sound died away a dark-skinned man entered the room.

“Bring in Major Rodchell,” directed the master briefly.

Martin sat spellbound in his chair while he waited for the next development.

Then he started up with horror and disbelief as he recognized the nationally known aviation expert who was led into the room between two attendants.

“Rodchell!” he cried out incredulously. “Rodchell! Major Rodchell!”

“Silence!” cried Dr. Dax in a terrible voice, flinging out his ghastly white fingers until they pointed at the horrified reporter.

Instantly Martin was enveloped in that old familiar wave of malignancy which chilled him into immobility. He dropped back into his seat, powerless to move or to cry out.

It was as though he had been tinned into marble. It was worse than the loss of movement so often experienced in a nightmare. Physically he was paralyzed, although his brain functioned with almost abnormal rapidity.

“Speak to the gentleman, Major Rodchell,” commanded Dax to the uniformed officer who had not even turned at Martin’s cry.

The aviator turned and bowed stiffly to the wide-eyed reporter. And Martin could have screamed in terror had he possessed the power. Rodchell was in a hypnotic trance.

“Major Rodchell,” continued Dax in his vibrant voice, “come to attention!”

The aviation officer did so, facing the hypnotist.

“To-morrow,” went on Dr. Dax impressively, “you are to carry the president for a flight over Washington. You will ascend to the altitude of five thousand feet. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” repeated Rodchell in that hollow tone which Martin had come to associate with disaster.

“While at that altitude you will receive a mental command from me to pass into a state of hypnosis such as your present one. I will send you a mental command to-morrow while you are in the air and you will quickly and resistlessly pass into a hypnotic trance. You will be under my control. Understand this!”

“I understand.”

“That is all. You will now be taken back to your quarters. You will awake there with no recollection of this visit to me. Go!”

The two attendants conducted the sleeping aviator out of the room. Martin could have reached out and touched the flying insignia on the pilot’s blouse had he had the ability to move.

But he was held by the chains of a mad hypnotist’s will. The tears of anguish coursed down his cheeks.

He heard voices in the distance as others took charge of the unconscious man — the outer doors opened and closed — the sound of a motor — the purring of great tires as a heavy automobile rolled out of the grounds — and the power of speech and motion came back to him.

“This makes the third and last trip of the major to see me,” remarked Dax significantly through the silence. “To-morrow Jonathan Rookes will automatically become the President of the United States. And you have the effrontery to call me mad. Do you want more proof?”

“Oh, my God!” gasped Martin. “You... you—”

Without attempting further speech he suddenly gathered his muscles and launched himself straight at the calmly sitting Brazilian. There was murder in his eye.

It was just the merest sort of a move that Dr. Dax made with his magnetic left hand, but Martin found himself brought up short by an invisible yet impenetrable wall.

He was gasping aloud as he tried to force his ray to the seated man’s side. He flamed with insensate fury.

All the pent-up violence burst forth in a rage and a lust to destroy that he did not attempt to control. But he was as harmless as a fly buzzing against a screen.

“It is useless,” Dr. Dax remarked quietly after a period during which he left the other wear himself out. “You would throw away the gifts I offer you in this mistaken sense of loyalty? Very well.

“But, my friend, you have forgotten—” he paused and pointed toward the curtained doorway which led to the little room of the couch — “Celia.”

Martin ceased his futile struggling. He groaned bitterly and gazed at the smiling Brazilian out of haggard eyes.

“That is true,” he muttered hopelessly. “What do you want me to do?”

Chapter LVI Whispering Wires

Immediately upon his surrender Fred Martin was accorded all the privileges of the establishment. He was installed in a suite of two rooms with private bath on the first floor which, after existence in the barren hospital above, was like an apartment in a palace.

Apparently all watch over his movements ceased; the various attendants and servants he now encountered were at his command instead of being hostile-eyed jailers. Dr. Dax went out of his way to impress the young man with the delight it was to bask in his favor.

Martin was conducted to his new quarters by a quiet servant who at once served him the most sumptuous breakfast he had eaten in weeks. He found in his bedroom an extensive wardrobe of splendid garments which fitted him perfectly.

There was no question that Dax was most thorough in his arrangements. He must have had all the necessary measurements for these clothes taken the first night Martin had been his prisoner.

That he had gone to considerable expense and no little trouble, apparently confident of the outcome before he had tried to subdue the reporter, made Martin smile bitterly. It was not gratifying to realize that his surrender had been anticipated with such certainty.

However, aside from that bitter little smile, Martin gave no sign of his thoughts. He accepted everything with a stoical calm which elicited the Brazilians admiration.

“I assure you, señor,” Dax said graciously upon seeing the reporter after breakfast, “that you are as free as air — as long as you do not attempt to leave the building. Make yourself at home. Consider everything at your disposal.

“Under the circumstances I cannot give you much of my time for the ensuing day or so. I will be busy in the office — and with other matters.

“For the present you are to do nothing. After to-morrow we shall discuss our plans for the future empire, you and I. I shall have no secrets from you; you must learn my plans before you can serve me intelligently.

“In the meantime, you are an honored guest. I do not like to remind you of any unpleasantness, and I will not speak of the matter again, but do not attempt to betray what you have thus far learned.

“I think you are a very wise man, one who will prove most valuable in the future. However, should you experience a temporary madness during the next thirty-six hours, remember Cavassier — and Celia.

“I cannot afford to take any chances on permitting you greater liberty at the present. That is all. I trust you like this apartment. It is fully as comfortable as mine. Good morning.”

Indeed, he was in the clutches of a madman. He stared at the door through which Dax had gone. It was a most capable and dangerous madman who held him helpless. The cataleptic state of Celia was sufficient to chain him to Dr. Dax with shackles of toughest steel.

Whatever he did, he must allow no harm to come to the woman he loved. Yes, he loved her. He knew it for a surety now and frankly admitted it. Hence, escape, if it were possible, was now impossible. To flee meant to sacrifice the life of Celia Debara.

He cherished no illusions on this point. Dax had proven himself too ruthless, his plans too vast, to hesitate at this summary step.

To flee and take Celia with him was even more impossible. How could he get away with a lifeless form in his arms? And should he succeed, what would he have gained?

That precious but lifeless form would still be under the control of the demonic Brazilian no matter how far away he managed to carry her. It was all like the unreal fantasy of a hellish nightmare.

He wondered whether this might not be a dream, an hallucination, a delirium from which he must shortly awaken. And then came the terrible remembrance of Palmer Hollisworth and Jonathan Rookes.

The matter of Major Thompson Rodchell was but a passing incident, a mere ripple in a sea of horror. And yet this unsuspecting gallant soldier had been given his own death warrant by the diabolical hypnotist.

Martin understood perfectly that he must plan and move without seeming to do so. He must pretend resignation; he had to remain here at the sanatorium while he conceived a plan to outwit his captor. For circumvent Dax he would.

While circumstances had forced him to capitulate, he had not unconditionally surrendered. Unless Dr. Dax was a clairvoyant as well as a super-hypnotist the Brazilian was unaware of the intense antagonism which lay behind the placid exterior of his newest lieutenant.

Willingly to sacrifice the lives of Celia and himself by pointblank refusal to accede to Dax’s plans, to throw himself away by blind ferocity, would have been sheerest folly.

But to spar for time by apparent surrender and then be willing to risk life, love, and possible happiness in one great effort to defeat the madman was another phase of the matter entirely.

Despite all propaganda to fire the common citizens with loyalty while capitalists waxed fat and selfish in their callous ways, despite the greed and graft and corruption which festered in a great nation, there still was such a thing as true patriotism.

All the sophistry in the world, all the cynicism, everything fell away before the crucial test of a young American. Like every other real man, when it came to a matter of extremes, Fred Martin was ready to die for his country — even if Celia, too, must die.

But he must not die in vain. He dared not jeopardize his slim chances by attempting anything rash. The thought of escape he renounced utterly.

The proper thing to do was to get a message through to MacCray. This seemed a hopeless idea, but it must be done. The fate of a hundred and twenty million unsuspecting people hung in the balance.

He forced himself to be calm. He bathed and selected suitable garments with the fastidiousness of a man of leisure who had not a care on his mind. Then he examined his suite of rooms with the permissible curiosity of a guest.

The building had been erected in the form of a cross. He found his quarters to be just at the intersection and therefore close to the heart of the structure.

His windows looked out over the back yard where numerous servants passed to and from the auxiliary buildings. There were no doors opening into his suite except the one leading out into the corridor. His windows were barred.

Leaving the apartment, he roamed about the first floor as carelessly as a restless young man might be supposed to do. At each outside entrance he found an armed guard on duty. It was true that Dr. Dax was taking no chances.

It was impossible to draw these cold-faced men into conversation. He turned to the newspapers to which he now had free access.

Although the news was old there was still some space given to the amazing disappearance of Professor Xanthus Debara and his household from Kingsley Mansions. Government officials were surprised and alarmed.

It was hinted that he had been bought off or kidnaped by foreign rubber interests. Martin laughed ironically. He knew exactly what had become of the vanished Debara, and he could not give away his news.

In the Times-Journal he found a column of stuff signed with his name. So good old Wilson was carrying on for him.

Thrice Martin strayed into the little chamber where Celia lay cold and rigid. All the time his brain was working in feverish activity.

One by one he had scrutinized the various servants and discarded them as possible aids until he gave up the idea of finding a possible messenger in the ménage of Dr. Dax. This brought him back to the telephone.

This he had considered at the outset, but he had been loathe to attempt such a childish and obvious means of reaching police headquarters. He knew that he would no more than get a connection — if that — before he would be interrupted. And then, what?

Now, having come at length to the telephone, Martin went about the matter methodically. First, he located all the instruments in the building.

There were three phones — one in the office of the hospital which was still used as an office by Dr. Dax, one in the main corridor near the kitchen, and one in a little alcove in the west wing.

He set himself to watch the latter two instruments. It did not take long, by listening to the bells, to learn that the office and corridor phones were on separate lines. Once he heard both phones in use at the same time.

The phone in the alcove was never used. He found the opportunity to slip in there and examine it. It was dead. No wonder it was left unguarded.

He survived this disappointment and improved the moment by removing the instrument from the wall. Choosing a suitable moment, he carried it quickly to his apartment and hid it in the wardrobe under a mass of garments.

The long winter afternoon passed while he made frequent trips upstairs and robbed one room after another of its electric light cord. This done, he spent weary hours splicing the wires together with the aid of a paper knife and tracing the wiring of the phone in the kitchen corridor.

By the time evening had come, leaving out all account of the many interruptions he had because of passing servants, the need for himself to spend time elsewhere save in the dimly lighted corridor, and other things, he had laid a pair of wires from his room down the corridor under the edge of the carpet.

Just before the dinner hour he managed to tap the kitchen phone wires at the baseboard. At last he was ready to connect the purloined instrument with a live circuit and, in the privacy of his apartment, call the police station.

The last thing he did before leaving the instrument in the hall was to disconnect it so that no one could lift the receiver during his conversation and listen in. This was a great risk he had to take.

If any one should attempt to use the instrument now and found it dead they might report the matter to Dr. Dax. A simple investigation would reveal the cause and would lead directly to Martin’s quarters. But he chanced this because the telephone was little used.

Chapter LVII A Night of Surprises

Dinner was served him in his own rooms. He was glad of this because he had no relish to join Dax at table. He could hardly tolerate the sight of the sinister Brazilian any longer.

The man was inhuman. If forced to be too much in his company Martin feared that he would not be able to control himself and successfully carry on his new role. Thus far it had not been necessary. Dax had had no time for him.

After dinner Martin waited until the servant cleared away the tray of dishes before he followed the man out of the room. He would not have thought of leaving the fellow alone in his apartment with that stolen telephone.

He was extremely nervous whenever the servant stepped near the door, fearing that he might step too close to the edge of the room and feel the electric light cord beneath the carpeting.

Why had he not merely waited until midnight and then risked using the telephone in the corridor instead of going to all the trouble he had and leaving a wide trail of missing telephone and missing drop cords which led straight to him?

And then he thanked his lucky star that he had gone to such an elaborate method. Dr. Dax came into his rooms as the waiter left. The Brazilian was dressed to go out.

“I am very sorry to inconvenience you, Señor Martin,” he smiled regretfully, “but business that is very urgent takes me away for the evening. Under the circumstances I must deprive you of the liberty of roaming about over the place during my absence. You will be locked in your quarters to-night.

“This, I trust, will be for the last time. If there is anything you wish before you retire you have but to ring your bell. While the servants will all have retired, and the gentlemen at the entrances being unable to answer, Calles will remain on duty to serve you. He will be at your beck and call.”

“But, that is, I thought I was to have the freedom of the house,” protested Martin quickly. “If the entrances are guarded why can’t I be allowed to come and go as I please? I had that much liberty upstairs.”

“Ah, but matters have changed,” smiled Dax. “I do not mistrust you, but I must take no chances in this crisis. After tomorrow, señor, I shall begin to trust you implicitly, I think. Is it not so?”

“Celia!” exclaimed Martin pleadingly. “She will be all alone with Calles loose about the building. Please do not lock me away from her. You—”

“She needs no company,” interrupted Dax. “As for Calles, he will not Venture into that part of the house. Set your mind at rest, my friend. However, if you insist, I can easily lock you in the lounge for the night.”

This would never do. He was all set to use the telephone in his own apartment. Since Dax refused to allow him the privilege of being in either place at will he must submit to being locked in his own quarters. This was a bitter disappointment.

He had hoped to gaze on that dear lace once more before making his call for the police. If things went wrong he might never see her again. The anguish in his face was very real as he bowed in submission.

Fortunately the Brazilian read it wrong as he bade him good night and motioned for the hulking Calles to lock the door.

Martin sat in dejection for a long while. Faintly he heard the sounds of Dax’s departure. Silence settled over the great building.

At last he arose and drew the shades tightly over his windows. He hung a cap over the doorknob to cover the keyhole and locked the door by sliding a straight-backed chair under the handle.

Then he got busy with his telephone. He brought it forth from hiding, fished out the ends of the wires near the door, and connected the instrument.

Making sure that all of his connections were right, he got into bed with the phone and covered himself with the bedclothes to muffle the sound of his voice. He was trembling all over as he placed the receiver to his ear.

TO BE CONCLUDED