Frank Merriwell in Europe: or Working His Way Upward

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Title: Frank Merriwell in Europe: or Working His Way Upward
Author: Standish, Burt L.
Language: English
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EUROPE ***

The Best Books For Boys
Ever Written

Burt L. Standish Library

_The Famous Merriwell Stories_

In all the world there is no name more beloved by youthful readers than
that of BURT L. STANDISH.

For many years his stories of Frank Merriwell have been the inspiration
of thousands of boys who desire to succeed in athletics.

Without preaching, Mr. Standish drives home proof after proof that right
living is the only way to live. Hence, the popularity of the Merriwell
stories.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

-------

BURT L. STANDISH LIBRARY

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books
listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York
City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To be published in July, 1930.

1—Frank Merriwell’s Schooldays
2—Frank Merriwell’s Chums

To be published in August, 1930.

3—Frank Merriwell’s Foes
4—Frank Merriwell’s Trip West
5—Frank Merriwell Down South

To be published in September, 1930.

6—Frank Merriwell’s Bravery
7—Frank Merriwell’s Hunting Tour

To be published in October, 1930.

8—Frank Merriwell in Europe
9—Frank Merriwell at Yale

To be published in November, 1930.

10—Frank Merriwell’s Sports Afield
11—Frank Merriwell’s Races

To be published in December, 1930.

12—Frank Merriwell’s Party
13—Frank Merriwell’s Bicycle Tour

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_NOTE THE NEW TITLES LISTED_

Western Story Library

For Everyone Who Likes Adventure

Ted Strong and his band of broncho-busters have most exciting adventures
in this line of attractive big books, and furnish the reader with an
almost unlimited number of thrills.

If you like a really good Western-cowboy story, then this line is made
expressly for you.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

1—Ted Strong, Cowboy By Edward C. Taylor
2—Ted Strong Among the Cattlemen By Edward C. Taylor
3—Ted Strong’s Black Mountain Ranch By Edward C. Taylor
4—Ted Strong With Rifle and Lasso By Edward C. Taylor
5—Ted Strong Lost in the Desert By Edward C. Taylor
6—Ted Strong Fighting the Rustlers By Edward C. Taylor
7—Ted Strong and the Rival Miners By Edward C. Taylor
8—Ted Strong and the Last of the Herd By Edward C. Taylor
9—Ted Strong on a Mountain Trail By Edward C. Taylor
10—Ted Strong Across the Prairie By Edward C. Taylor
11—Ted Strong Out for Big Game By Edward C. Taylor
12—Ted Strong Challenged By Edward C. Taylor
13—Ted Strong’s Close Call By Edward C. Taylor
14—Ted Strong’s Passport By Edward C. Taylor
15—Ted Strong’s Nebraska Ranch By Edward C. Taylor
16—Ted Strong’s Cattle Drive By Edward C. Taylor
17—Ted Strong’s Stampede By Edward C. Taylor
18—Ted Strong’s Prairie Trail By Edward C. Taylor
19—Ted Strong’s Surprise By Edward C. Taylor
20—Ted Strong’s Wolf Hunters By Edward C. Taylor
21—Ted Strong’s Crooked Trail By Edward C. Taylor
22—Ted Strong in Colorado By Edward C. Taylor
23—Ted Strong’s Justice By Edward C. Taylor
24—Ted Strong’s Treasure By Edward C. Taylor
25—Ted Strong’s Search By Edward C. Taylor
26—Ted Strong’s Diamond Mine By Edward C. Taylor
27—Ted Strong’s Manful Task By Edward C. Taylor
28—Ted Strong, Manager By Edward C. Taylor
29—Ted Strong’s Man Hunt By Edward C. Taylor
30—Ted Strong’s Gold Mine By Edward C. Taylor
31—Ted Strong’s Broncho Boys By Edward C. Taylor
32—Ted Strong’s Wild Horse By Edward C. Taylor
33—Ted Strong’s Tenderfoot By Edward C. Taylor
34—Ted Strong’s Stowaway By Edward C. Taylor
35—Ted Strong’s Prize Herd By Edward C. Taylor
36—Ted Strong’s Trouble By Edward C. Taylor
37—Ted Strong’s Mettle By Edward C. Taylor
38—Ted Strong’s Big Business By Edward C. Taylor
39—Ted Strong’s Treasure Cave By Edward C. Taylor
40—Ted Strong’s Vanishing Island By Edward C. Taylor
41—Ted Strong’s Motor Car By Edward C. Taylor
42—Ted Strong in Montana By Edward C. Taylor
43—Ted Strong’s Contract By Edward C. Taylor
44—Ted Strong’s Stolen Pinto By Edward C. Taylor
45—Ted Strong’s Saddle Pard By Edward C. Taylor
46—Ted Strong and the Sioux Players By Edward C. Taylor

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Frank Merriwell in Europe

Working His Way Upward

By BURT L. STANDISH
Author of the famous Merriwell stories.

[Illustration]

STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS
INCORPORATED
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

By STREET & SMITH

Renewal granted Gilbert Patten, 1924

───

Frank Merriwell in Europe

Printed in the U. S. A.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

FRANK MERRIWELL IN EUROPE.

-------

CHAPTER I.

THE ARRIVAL AT TANGIER.

“Hurrah, Ephraim, here we are at last!”

It was Frank Merriwell who spoke. He was standing on the deck of a
steamer which was approaching the coast of Morocco. Beside him stood his
old chum and former schoolmate, Ephraim Gallup, from Vermont.

“Is thet Tangier?” came from Ephraim, as he gazed ashore with interest.

“It is.”

“Funny looking place, I must say. Not a bit like the United States. But
it’s a heap sight better nor them places we stopped at in South Africy,
by gosh.”

“Let us hope so. I trust we have a more quiet time here than we did
there.”

“Great catfish, Frank, so do I! Why, it was awful, the things thet
happened to us in Africy. No, I don’t want no more sech happenin’s in
mine, by gum!”

As old readers of the Frank Merriwell stories know, Frank was now on a
grand tour to different quarters of the globe. On the death of his
guardian he had come into possession of much money, and his guardian had
desired that he do some traveling before settling down. Frank was to
take with him a professor and one boyish companion. At present the
professor, Horace Scotch, was not with the youth, but Ephraim was, and
the two had just come up from the lower coast of Africa, where they had
passed through numerous adventures, as related in “Frank Merriwell’s
Hunting Tour.”

“Look, Ephraim!” went on Frank. “Yonder is Tangier, lying like a
snow-white pearl on the shore of the blue Mediterranean. It is a sight
to quicken the blood.”

He pointed to the white walls of a city that could be plainly seen.

“It looks purty fair from here,” admitted the Vermonter; “but ‘cordin’
to yeour own statement abaout it, it won’t look so well when we git
there.”

“That is very true; but it is the gateway to a strange land for us—a
land of strange people, strange customs, of wonders and marvels
innumerable. Besides that, I am tired of the sea, and I long to get
ashore once more.”

“By gum! I don’t blame ye fer that. But I’d ruther git ashore where
folks are civilized. I’ve seen enough uv black men an’ heathen.”

Frank laughed.

“Surely we have had our fill of them; but I would not like to return
home without visiting Morocco.”

Before long the speed of the steamer began to lessen, and it finally
came to a stop, the anchor chains rattling, as the anchors were dropped.

“Hang it all!” exclaimed Ephraim, clutching Frank’s arm. “Will yeou jest
look there! Is that a gang uv crazy critters comin’ to attack the
steamer, ur what do they want?”

Some boats were pulling off from the shore, and behind them was a swarm
of tattered Arabs, half naked, wading in the water, advancing toward the
vessel, waving their arms wildly, and uttering strange cries.

“Evidently that is one of the queer things we are to see in this
country,” said Frank, quietly.

The boats reached the steamer, and the passengers were hurried into them
by the boatmen. Frank and Ephraim succeeded in getting into one boat,
and were called on to pay for their passage immediately after they had
left the steamer.

The boats moved toward the throng of tattered terra-cotta-colored human
beings, some of whom had waded in the water to the middle of their
thighs.

As soon as this disreputable-looking horde was reached it precipitated
itself upon the boats. The passengers were seized by the jabbering gang,
as if they were to be put to death without delay.

One old fellow grabbed Ephraim and tried to drag him from the boat.

“Git aout!” squawked the boy from Vermont.

He hit the old Arab a back-handed blow with the flat of his hand,
knocking the man over in a twinkling.

But the old Arab was not to be baffled in such a manner. Dripping with
water, he scrambled up and grappled with the excited youth.

Seeing a catastrophe was coming, Frank lost no time in climbing out of
the boat to the shoulders of a burly mulatto, where he sat in a
comfortable position, waving his hat and shouting:

“Go it, boys! I’ll bet two to one on Vermont! Yankee Doodle forever!”

“Stand off, ye black pirut!” howled Ephraim, who had been somewhat
blinded by the splashed water. “Keep yeour dirty hands off me, or
I’ll——Wa-ow!”

Over went the boat, precipitating the boatman and the Yankee lad into
the water, where there was a general floundering about, much to the
amusement of the other passengers.

Frank Merriwell’s hearty laugh rang out.

“If this is a sample of what we’ll strike in Morocco, we’ll have fun,”
he cried.

Ephraim came to the surface, spouting like a whale.

“Hang ye!” he squealed, standing up and shaking his fist at the
bewildered Arab. “Yeou wait till we git on dry land, critter! I’ll fix
ye!”

Then he began to wade ashore.

“I am surprised, Ephraim,” said Frank, soberly, “that you should make
such a racket over a matter like this. The tan-colored gentleman simply
wished to carry you ashore, as the water is too shoal to permit the
boats to approach nearer. You will observe that all the passengers are
going ashore in that manner.”

The lad from Vermont looked around, seeing that Frank spoke the truth.
The ladies were being carried ashore in chairs, while the male
passengers bestrode the necks of the Arabs and negroes.

“Wal, why in thutteration didn’t they tell a feller what they was
arter!” growled Ephraim, looking ashamed and disgusted. “They acted jest
ez if they wanted to murder the hull on us.”

When the shore was reached, Frank paid for the transportation of both
himself and Ephraim, as the old fellow whom the Vermonter had upset
demanded payment.

“Here we are!” Merriwell cried. “And now we will find a hotel.”

Inquiry revealed that there was one European hotel in the city, and
Frank secured a guide to pilot them thither.

Ephraim grumbled as they made their way along. He was dripping with
water, and presented a ludicrous aspect, but the populace in the streets
did not smile upon him. He was greeted in a stoical, indifferent manner,
as if he were a worm of very small importance. Men drew aside from the
boys, and women avoided them, while children fled in terror.

“Real sociable people,” chuckled Frank. “Judging by the way they act,
any one would think we must be blood-thirsty savages.”

Nearly all the people in the streets were enveloped in a sort of long,
white woolen cloak, with a large cowl, generally worn straight up on the
heads, so that the whole city presented the aspect of a convent of
Dominican monks.

Some of these hooded people passed gravely, slowly and silently, a
dreamy look in their eyes, as if their thoughts were far away; some
remained seated or crouching along the walls, or at the corners of
houses, immovable and with fixed eyes, like the enchanted ones of the
“Arabian Nights.”

On their way to the hotel they passed through several narrow, winding
streets, flanked by small white houses, without windows, and with small,
mean doorways, through which it could not be easy to enter.

In many of the streets nothing was to be seen but the whiteness of the
walls and the blue sky overhead.

Nearly all the streets were littered with rotten vegetables, feathers,
rags, bones, and sometimes with deceased cats and dogs.

As may be imagined, the odors were often anything but agreeable.

At long intervals were seen groups of Arab children, playing or reciting
verses from the Koran in a nasal drone.

Beggars were plentiful, squatting along the streets.

Here and there the nostrils of the boys were assailed by the odor of
garlic, burnt aloes, benzoine, fish, and things unnamable.

The square was reached, and was found to be a little rectangular place,
surrounded by wretched shops.

At one side was a fountain, around which was a crowd of Arabs and
negroes, engaged in drawing water in various vessels.

At the other side of the square, veiled women were seated on the ground,
offering bread for sale.

The little square was thronged with almost naked vagabonds, rich Moors,
Jews, employees of the legations, the houses of which were near at hand;
interpreters and beggars galore.

For the time, Ephraim forgot that he had received a ducking. He looked
around, his jaw dropping.

“Hanged ef this don’t beat the deck!” he muttered. “Never saw nothing
like this before.”

“It is rather interesting,” replied Frank. “I fancied you would find it
so.”

At this moment a veiled girl suddenly broke away from two men, who
seemed to be acting as her escorts, gave a low cry of joy, rushed toward
the boys, and flung her arms about Merriwell’s neck, sobbing:

“Frank! Frank! they said you were dead!”

Never in his life was Frank Merriwell more astonished. He could scarcely
believe he had heard aright.

Ephraim Gallup caught his breath and gurgled:

“Wal, by gum!”

Shouts of surprise and rage broke from the men who had accompanied the
girl. Quickly drawing short, curved swords from beneath their cloaks,
they sprang toward the lads.

“Unhand her, Christian dogs!” roared one, flourishing his sword, as if
he would cut Frank down in a moment.

“Take me away!” implored the girl. “I am willing to go with you now! Do
not let them touch me again!”

That appeal was enough to arouse the chivalry in Frank’s nature.
Swinging her to one side, he drew a revolver.

“Stand off!” he ordered, sternly.

“And keep off!” squealed Ephraim, as he let his clinched fist shoot out
and catch one of the men under the ear.

It was a heavy blow, and the old Moor was knocked down in a twinkling.

A roar went up from all sides, and a rush was made for the two lads, who
found themselves surrounded by a furious and raging mob.

It had come about with marvelous swiftness, so that even Frank was a
trifle bewildered.

Some of the mob brandished daggers and scimiters, and all seemed
thirsting for the blood of the two youths.

The old fellow who had been knocked down got upon his feet, waved his
arms, and shouted forth an order.

In the twinkling of an eye, the lads found themselves overwhelmed. The
revolver was dashed from Frank’s hand, the girl was torn from his grasp,
and he received a blow that staggered and dazed him.

Ephraim was used no less severely.

The second Moor, the one who had shouted at Frank in English, now
ordered the mob back. He addressed them in Arabic, and they seemed to
give over the assault on the boys with great reluctance, drawing back
slowly.

Not knowing what might follow this move, Frank held himself in readiness
for anything, regarding the old Moor with no little curiosity.

The man turned on the boys, gazing at them gloweringly, as if he longed
to annihilate them, yet hardly dared. After some moments, he spoke.

“Knaves,” he growled, “you should die. Do you know what you have done,
miserable Christians?”

“Attempted to defend a girl who appealed to us, but I made a sad failure
of it,” replied Frank, looking around for the mysterious girl, but
seeing nothing of her.

“You have defiled her with your touch, and she is the Pearl of Tangier!
But that is not all. You struck Ben Ahmet, who is her uncle and
protector, and who is also a descendant of Mohammed, the sacred one.”

“Is that so!” drawled Ephraim, dryly. “Wal, I wouldn’t ‘a’ struck Ben ef
I hedn’t thought it necessary. As he’s a trifle older then I be, I’m
sorry I hit him at all. Jest tell him I apologize.”

“Bah! That will not wash away the stain. Your blood would have flowed if
he had ordered it so. From this hour you are marked. If you remain in
Morocco you shall not escape just punishment for your offense. It is
best that you delay not in leaving the country.”

Frank whistled.

“This is interesting,” he said, coolly. “We have just arrived.”

“It matters not. If you would live, depart at once.”

“Well, we will think it over. We can’t go till the steamer leaves,
unless we swim across the straits, and that would be too much trouble.”

“I have spoken.”

“And who be yeou?” demanded Ephraim.

“I am Ali Mustaf, the Cadi of Thwat, favored by the Prince of Believers
and Vicegerent of God upon Earth.”

“Wal, gol dern my cats!” gasped the boy from Vermont. “We didn’t know
we’d run up against anything like that. Will yeou excuse us for livin’!”

“You have heard. Take heed.”

Ali Mustaf turned and waved his hands to the throng, whereupon the mob
slowly and reluctantly dispersed, giving the boys many black looks, and
muttering sullenly.

Ali Mustaf and Ben Ahmet moved away.

“What in the world became of that girl?” muttered Frank, looking about.
“She disappeared in a twinkling.”

“She was carried away by some uv the craowd,” said Ephraim. “One uv them
old varmits must hev told them to take her away.”

“And she knew me.”

“She did?”

“Surely. Didn’t you hear her call me by name?”

“I guess I did. But haow in thunder did she happen to know yeou?”

“That is a mystery—one I would give something to solve.”

Then Frank’s face became clouded again, and he bit his lip, looking
about in an unsatisfied way.

“How shall I find her again?” he murmured. “I did not see her face. I
should not know her if I saw her.”

“I kainder guess we’ll have aour hands full, without botherin’ abaout
her. Mister Mustaf informed us that we was marked.”

“That was a bluff to scare us out of the country. These swarthy fellows
do not like Christians. They dare not harm us, however. If they did,
they would not have stopped when they were crowding around us a short
time ago.”

“Mebbe yeour right, Frank. Yeou ’most alwus be, but somethin’ kainder
tells me we’ll have more trouble with Mister Mustaf and Mister Ahmet.”

“I could not go away without making another attempt to see that
mysterious girl. Something tells me she is in serious trouble. Besides
that, my curiosity is aroused, and I must know how she learned my name.
It is possible I have met her before. More than that, I have thought of
another possibility.”

“What is it?”

“She spoke perfect English.”

“Yes.”

“Which is remarkable, as everything indicated she could not be more than
sixteen or seventeen.”

“Wal?”

“Moorish girls of that age are not likely to have opportunities to learn
the English language.”

“I s’pose not.”

“Can’t you see what I am driving at?”

“Dunno’s I kin. I’m kainder thick-headed.”

“Why, she may not be a native of this country at all—she may be an
English or American girl.”

“Great gosh!”

“And she may be a captive. It is possible she has been kidnaped for the
harem of some miserable old Moor. The thought makes my blood boil.
Ephraim, we have a mission in Morocco. It is to find that girl and
rescue her, if needs be. We will do it!”

“We will do it!”

Before the eyes of the wondering rabble the dauntless boys clasped
hands.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER II.

FRANK SEEKS INFORMATION.

When they looked around for the guide whom they had employed to lead
them to the only European hotel in the city it was found that the fellow
had fled, affrighted by the encounter which had taken place in the
square.

The boys were about to look for another guide when, with cries of
surprise and joy, a small, red-whiskered man, dressed in a tourist’s
traveling suit, such as is worn in hot countries, came hurrying toward
them.

“Hang me ef I don’t b’lieve I’ve seen him afore!” exclaimed the boy from
Vermont. “Them whiskers look nattral. It is——”

“Professor Scotch, as I live!” joyfully shouted Frank Merriwell. “Will
wonders never cease! This is miraculous.”

The little man ran forward and caught Frank’s hands, looked into his
face, as if making sure he was not mistaken, and then clasped the boy in
his arms.

For some time the little man was nearly overcome with joyful emotions,
and Frank was scarcely less delighted.

It was, in truth, Professor Horace Scotch, Frank’s guardian, who had
thus marvelously appeared in Tangier.

Mutual explanations followed quickly. Frank told how he happened to be
there, and then the professor related how on arriving in London he had
received a letter from the boy, but had been disappointed beyond measure
when Frank did not appear in due time. He had written scores of letters
and sent many telegrams, but had been unable to learn anything more than
that Frank had left Buenos Ayres in a vessel bound for South Africa, but
which had been lost at sea.

The professor had nearly given up all hope of ever seeing his _protégé_
again, thinking Frank must be dead. He resolved, however, to make every
effort to ascertain the facts as to Frank’s fate, and had left London
for that purpose.

The United States Consul at Tangier was an old friend of the professor,
and thus it came about that Scotch had visited him.

Then the boys came.

The professor was so agitated that his explanation was somewhat
incoherent, but Frank was able to get the drift of it.

When his excitement had subsided a bit, the little man began to scold.
He soundly berated the boy for running off to South America without
permission and continuing over the world on his own hook.

Frank listened quietly, a smile on his face.

“There, there, professor,” he finally said. “What’s the use of making a
fuss about it. Wait till we get to the hotel, and I will explain more
fully why I went to South America.”

So the professor led the way to the hotel.

The professor had obtained a native servant by the name of Azza, and the
fellow was immediately dispatched for the luggage of the two boys, being
given a written order by them.

While waiting for the luggage, the trio talked matters over.

Azza returned with the luggage in due time.

Both lads lost no time in exchanging their clothing for suits of white
duck, suitable for the climate.

“There!” exclaimed Ephraim. “I feel better, by gum! Them wet duds warn’t
comfortable.”

A square meal followed, and then Frank told the professor of their
adventure since arriving in Tangier.

“Merciful goodness!” gasped the little man, with uplifted hands. “It’s a
wonder you were not both killed. These Moors are dreadful creatures, and
they do not consider the life of a Christian of any consequence. I have
heard of Ben Ahmet. He is very rich.”

“I don’t care about him,” said Frank. “What I want to know is if that
girl was truly his niece.”

The professor called Azza, and Frank questioned the fellow.

Azza declared that Ben Ahmet had a niece who was known far and wide as
“the Pearl of Tangier,” a title which had been given her when she was
yet a child. It was rumored that she was very beautiful. Her name was
Igela.

Igela’s father, unlike most Moors, had traveled much outside his own
country. Originally he was a very poor merchant, but it was said he had
traveled as far as London and had learned tricks of trade from Christian
dogs, so that he came back to his own country and soon made a fortune.

He was an exporter of goods, largely handling the caps made at Fez. One
of his customers, a great English merchant, once visited him, and was
received graciously in the Moor’s house. This was but shortly before the
death of Igela’s father.

Igela was the old merchant’s only child. He regretted much that she was
not a boy, for she displayed much business capability.

The old merchant left his property to his child, intrusting her to the
care of his brother, Ben Ahmet.

Ben Ahmet had also made much money, but he was quite unlike his brother.
He hated Christians so that he would not do business with them, and he
would not speak a word of their language, although he understood much of
it.

Seeing that Igela was budding into womanhood and was very beautiful, Ben
Ahmet made her conceal her face with a veil. Still she was known far and
wide as the Pearl of Tangier.

There were many who sought Igela for a wife, but it was said that she
had acquired strange notions of marriage, and had refused to accept the
man whom her uncle chose, saying she would suit herself in that matter.

That was all Azza knew about her.

“Very interesting,” commented Frank; “and still unsatisfactory. It seems
that Igela knew me to-day, and that she can speak almost perfect
English. Who is Ali Mustaf?”

“He is a powerful cadi, or tax-gatherer,” answered Azza. “It is said
that he seeks the Pearl for a wife.”

“Ha! Then that explains his remarkable interest in her, and it likewise
explains why she fled from him. This is becoming as interesting as a
romance. I feel in duty bound to offer her my assistance. But how am I
to do so?”

That was a question not easily answered, and Frank puzzled over it for a
long time.

Professor Scotch was alarmed by what had happened, by Frank’s manner,
and by the threat which the Moor had uttered against the boys. He was in
favor of getting out of Morocco without delay, but Frank had no thought
of being frightened away thus quickly.

“Look here, Azza, old boy,” he said, “I’ll make it worth your while if
you will take a note to Igela. Can you do it?”

“I can try.”

“Well, that is something.”

In vain the professor urged him not to send a note, nor to attempt to
communicate in such a manner with the mysterious girl.

“Don’t get fluttery, professor,” advised Frank, coolly. “If you try to
be too strict with me, I may take a fancy to run away again.”

The professor groaned.

“You are incorrigible,” he declared. “It is impossible to do anything
with you.”

So Frank wrote the note and sent Azza out with it, offering him a
tempting reward if he would deliver it into the hand of Igela, and
warning him to give it up to no other person. He worded it briefly as
follows:

“TO IGELA, ‘The Pearl of Tangier’:

“Are you in trouble? Do you need assistance. If so, tell me how
I may aid you.

“FRANK MERRIWELL.”

Azza was away from the hotel for nearly two hours. At length he returned
and placed a folded paper in Frank’s hand, saying simply:

“This is her answer.”

Eagerly Frank opened the paper, but in a moment a look of disappointment
came over his face.

“It is written in Arabic,” he said. “I cannot read it.”

Azza bowed low.

“It will give me great pleasure to read it for you,” he said.

Frank scanned the fellow closely.

“Can you read writing?” he asked, as if somewhat doubtful.

Azza assured him that he could both read and write. Frank hesitated a
moment, and then passed the note to the servant. Azza translated it as
follows:

“I am in great trouble, and you can aid me. Come this evening at
nine. Azza will guide you. Trust all to him.

“IGELA.”

Frank frowned, and then he questioned the Arab.

Azza told how he had found the house of Ben Ahmet, and had lingered till
he saw one of the sheriff’s servants whom he knew. By the servant he had
sent word to Igela, and she had finally appeared at the parapet of the
terrace. Then Azza had attached Frank’s note to a small stone, which he
had tossed to her. She had read it, had written the reply, and then had
instructed Azza to guide Frank to a certain spot that evening, saying
she would be there.

Frank was not quite satisfied with this story.

“It is rather remarkable that she could read my note, written in
English, and could not write a reply in English,” he said, watching the
face of the Arab closely.

“She was much excited,” Azza calmly explained. “She feared much that she
might be seen.”

“But that doesn’t explain why she did not write in English.”

“She must have forgotten in her haste and excitement.”

Frank was forced to confess to himself that such a thing would be very
natural, but still he questioned Azza. It became evident, after a
little, that the Arab was very shrewd or perfectly truthful, and the boy
was inclined to think him the latter.

Frank went to his room and pondered over the matter for some time. He
realized that by many he would be considered foolish in his attempt to
aid this unknown girl.

But his curiosity was thoroughly aroused. He could conceive of no
possible way that she could have known him in the past, and yet she had
fled to him for assistance, calling him by name.

A mystery of that sort was quite enough to make Frank determined to seek
the solution.

And never had he turned away when appealed to by beauty in distress.
That this girl was in trouble and hoped for assistance from him was
certain.

“I will go to her to-night,” he resolved. “I will aid her, if it lays in
my power to do so. That is settled.”

Ephraim came into the room and found Frank putting on a lead-colored
garment, which he wore beneath his outer shirt.

Frank showed his comrade the note from Igela, and explained what the
girl had written.

Ephraim looked doubtful, and shook his head in a sober way.

“I’m afeared yeour goin’ to git into a heap uv trouble, Frank,” he said.
“I’ll bet a big squash Mister Ahmet is kainder keepin’ watch uv yeou,
an’ he’ll know ef ye try to see the gal.”

“Oh, you are getting to be a veritable croaker, Ephraim. I am not afraid
of Ben Ahmet, and I am determined to have a talk with Igela.”

“Wal, I ruther guess yeou’ll do jest as yeou durn please, fer I’ve alwus
noticed yeou do. Yeou’d better take me along with ye.”

“Not on this trip, Ephraim. I am going to go it alone.”

Still Frank was doubtful, although he would not confess it, even to
himself. He carefully examined his revolvers, taking both of them.

Professor Scotch came in and expressed his curiosity over a queer little
cabinet which Frank had taken from his trunk.

“Oh, that’s a curiosity I picked up,” explained the boy. “I fancied it
might come in handy some time, and I mean to carry it home with me.”

“But what in the world is it?” asked the professor, endeavoring to open
it, but being unable to do so. “How do you get into the thing?”

“This way.”

Frank touched the cabinet, and the top flew open, while up shot the head
of a serpent with forked tongue and fiery eyes, seeming to hiss and
strike at the professor.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER III.

THE PROFESSOR IS PUZZLED.

Professor Scotch gave a shriek of terror, and fell over backward.

“Save me!” he roared. “I’m a dead man! Kill the thing!”

“What’s all this about?” asked Frank, in apparent surprise. “What is the
matter with you, professor?”

“Snakes! snakes!”

“Snakes? What are you talking about? Where?”

“There! Why, where is it? It has gone!”

The professor sat up and stared in amazement at the cabinet, which was
wide open, but no snake was in sight.

“Too bad!” said Frank, turning to Ephraim. “I did have a faint hope that
the professor would leave it off, but it is still plain that he
sometimes looks on the wine when it is red.”

“What’s that?” roared the little man, who had a big, hoarse voice. “What
do you mean? Do you insinuate that I have been drinking?”

“Of course I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but——”

“I tell you I saw a snake!”

“Too bad!” sobbed Frank, getting out his handkerchief, and pretending to
wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

“But I am positive of it.”

“They always are.”

“It must be right here somewhere. Look around for it.”

“I wouldn’t, professor—you may see something worse.”

The professor was aroused. He had permitted the United States Consul to
treat him rather generously with strong drink since coming to Tangier,
but he was positive that had nothing to do with the appearance of the
snake, and he was angry with Frank for insinuating anything of the sort.

“Look out!” he rumbled, grasping his cane and thrusting it into the
cabinet. “I’ll poke the reptile out, or—Whoop! Murder! Take it off!”

With a shrilling squeal, a large rat had jumped out of the cabinet and
seemed to run along the cane toward the professor’s hand.

The little man dropped the stick in an instant, and once more fell flat
upon the floor, where he made a wild scramble to get away, and stopping
only when he had reached a distant corner, where he sat up on the floor,
his back against the wall, his eyes popping from his head.

“Where is the beast?” he gurgled, hoarsely.

Frank turned to Ephraim, wringing his hands in apparent distress.

“The professor has gone mad!” he moaned.

“Mad!” roared the little man, gathering courage, as he saw nothing of
the rat. “Who wouldn’t be mad to have a slimy serpent strike at him, and
then be attacked by a red-eyed rat?”

“Too bad! too bad!” sighed Frank. “I fear he will become violent. We
must send for a doctor immediately.”

“Doctor!” howled Scotch. “I don’t want a doctor. I tell you I’m all
right! But I know when I see a snake and a rat. The snake hissed at me,
and the rat tried to get on my hand.”

“It is a very bad case,” came soberly from Frank, while Ephraim turned
his head to hide a broad grin.

Scotch got on his feet, and danced around like a maniac.

“Confound it all!” he shouted. “There’s nothing the matter with me! I am
all right! I know what I see!”

Frank followed him up, patted him on the back, caressed his hand, and
said, soothingly:

“Of course you know—to be sure you do. There was a whole drove of
snakes, and more than a hundred rats.”

“No, there wasn’t!” snarled the little man, grinding his teeth. “Don’t
tell me that! Think I’m a fool?”

“Too bad!” sighed Frank, giving Ephraim a lugubrious look that nearly
convulsed the lad from Vermont. “This is the way with them every time.
Now he is sure he didn’t see any snakes and rats. That is proof positive
that he is in a dangerous condition. Wouldn’t it be terrible if we found
it necessary to have him taken in charge and cared for constantly?”

Professor Scotch gave an exhibition of a wild and somewhat original war
dance. When he was out of breath, he paused in front of Frank, shaking
his fist in the boy’s face as he gasped:

“I see through your little game. You want to get rid of me! You want to
go as you please! You want to do as you choose! That’s why you ran away
to South America. But it won’t work, you young rascal! I’ll stick by you
now, though you may bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave.”

Then he tramped up and down the room like a caged tiger. Coming near the
cabinet, he lifted his foot to give it a kick, but, at that instant, a
hollow voice that seemed to come from the cabinet itself, said:

“Beware! Touch me not!”

And then a grinning skull popped into view and nodded familiarly at the
little man.

The professor gave a howl, and rushed out of the room, leaving the two
boys, who were in paroxysms of laughter.

When the boys had ceased to laugh somewhat, Frank approached the
cabinet, rolling up a little ball of invisible cord as he did so.
Without hesitation, he took hold of the skull and thrust it back into
the compartment from which it had popped into view.

“There,” he said, “I rather fancied this cabinet would afford me some
amusement when I bought it from that traveling magician. The professor
forgot that I sometimes practice ventriloquism, and so he fancied that
it was the skull that spoke. If he had continued to monkey around that
cabinet I would have shown him some other things of a surprising
nature.”

Then he arranged everything in the cabinet, which he closed and returned
to his trunk.

Under cover of darkness, guided by the dark-skinned Azza, Frank left the
hotel shortly before nine.

Azza avoided the square, and stole along the dark and narrow streets
with a swift, cat-like tread.

Frank followed closely, making sure his revolvers were ready for instant
use.

Both man and boy were enveloped in the hooded cloak so common in
Tangier.

The shoes which Frank wore had cork soles, so his footsteps made very
little noise.

At intervals they brushed against persons who were moving in the narrow
streets, and Frank seemed to see sharp eyes peering at him from beneath
beetling brows.

Tangier was not a pleasant city to roam about in after nightfall.

It seemed to Frank that it was a city well adapted to dark deeds—a place
where crime might thrive with little fear of punishment.

As far as possible, Azza avoided the pedestrians who were moving on the
streets.

In every nook and angle dark shadows lurked, like crouching assassins,
and more than once the boy clutched his revolver, ready to draw and
defend himself from attack.

They passed through a maze of winding streets, so that the boy became
quite bewildered. He had thought to remember every turn, so he could
return to the hotel without a guide, if necessary, but he was soon
forced to confess to himself that such a thing would be beyond his
ability to accomplish.

All at once, the silence of the night was broken by a distant fusillade
of shots, and Azza halted suddenly.

They had reached one of the wider streets, which leads to the gate of
Sokko.

Far along the street there was a glare of many torches, swaying, moving,
advancing.

Frank wondered what it could mean, and questioned his guide.

“Look, and you shall see,” said Azza, drawing the boy still farther
back, so that they might readily step into the shadow of a wall and let
the torches pass.

Frank did look, and he saw a surging crowd of human beings, revealed by
the flaring torchlight, which flickered over their dusky faces. They
were dressed grotesquely in cloaks and robes and winding garments, and
all seemed greatly excited. Now and then they fired into the air with
muskets and pistols.

Dogs were barking, there were sounds of plaintive music, and the great
throng kept up a droning and nasal chant, now and then broken by
strident cries.

Near the van of the procession was a coal-black horse, fiery and
headstrong, held in check by the powerful Arabs who walked on either
side. On the back of the horse was something in the shape of an upright
coffin.

Frank gazed at this strange procession with interest and wonder.

“What does it mean?” he asked. “Is it a funeral?”

“No,” replied Azza; “it is the wedding march of a young girl. She is in
that casket. These people are her parents and friends, who are
accompanying her to the home of her husband.”

“Well, that is certainly very strange and remarkable.”

“To a Christian it may seem strange,” admitted Azza; “but it is the
custom here.”

When the procession had passed, they crossed the street and went onward
along the dark and winding ways.

At last, with a warning hiss, the Arab halted.

Instinctively, Frank felt for his weapons once more, for, although he
could not see his surroundings, he felt that he was in a rather unsavory
quarter of the city. The smells which assailed his nostrils seemed to
assure him of that.

Azza uttered a soft signal, and then they waited. Twice he repeated the
signal. At the third call a muffled figure glided out of the shadows and
approached them.

“It is Igela,” whispered the Arab.

Frank’s heart leaped. There no longer seemed a doubt they would meet the
mysterious girl who was known as the Pearl of Tangier.

She came toward them in a hesitating, doubtful way, till Azza assured
her that all was well. Even then she seemed oppressed by terror and
dread. When Frank stepped toward her she shrank away.

“You need have no fear of me,” he said, softly. “I am your friend.”

She did not reply, but she still seemed much alarmed. Frank did his best
to reassure her.

“You are in distress,” he said. “Tell me how I may serve you.”

“Not here,” she whispered. “We shall be seen. Come.”

Her hand touched his, and she led him toward the wall, where a small
door opened.

“Now I will see the adventure through to the end,” he thought, and he
followed her recklessly.

Azza followed, closing the door noiselessly. Frank could feel the fellow
close behind him.

The boy seemed to know it was a rash adventure, but, with a reckless
abandon that sometimes assailed him, he went on, eager to know what
would follow.

The girl led him through a narrow passage and into a room where a lamp
dimly burned. From this room they passed across an open court, entering
by another small door, and traversing another long passage.

From this they entered a room that was lighted by a swinging lamp of
fantastic pattern. On the floor was a thick carpet of Rabat, while the
walls were hung with yellow and red tapestries. Mattresses and cushions
were piled everywhere, and the colors of the rainbow met the eye on
every hand.

Frank looked around with interest. The room seemed to be unoccupied when
they entered.

Having made a hasty survey of the apartment, Frank turned toward the
girl; but at that moment there was a noise behind him, and he wheeled to
see two fierce-looking, bewhiskered, turbaned Moors rush into the room.

They were Ben Ahmet and Ali Mustaf!

“Dog of a Christian!” snarled Ali Mustaf. “You have walked into the
trap, and now, by my beard, you shall die!”

Ben Ahmet cried out something in his own language, flourishing a
scimiter as if he longed to strike the boy’s head from his body.

Instead of being overcome with terror, Frank was astonishingly cool. He
surveyed the two Moors complacently.

“So it was a trap,” he quietly said. “Well, I should have known it, but
I did trust this old wretch.”

And then, with remarkable swiftness, he made a spring and let one hard
fist shoot out from the shoulder.

Frank’s knuckles caught Azza on the chin, and the scoundrel was lifted
off his feet and hurled with a dull thud against the wall, from which he
dropped in a limp heap to the floor.

“That was easy,” laughed the reckless youth, as if he really enjoyed the
situation. “Now, Ben, it is your turn.”

Ben Ahmet flourished his scimiter, and Ali Mustaf lifted a long-bladed
knife, crying:

“Back, dog of a Christian, or, by Allah! this shall pierce your heart!”

“Oh-ho! So that’s the trick. Well, if I stand back, what do you propose
to do? Tell me that.”

“You are trapped, knave.”

“Are you sure? I will acknowledge that I allowed yonder base slave to
deceive me; but it is a strong trap that can hold me.”

“By the beard of the Prophet, you speak boldly, boy.”

“I speak the truth. What do you intend to do with me?”

“You shall never pass from beneath this roof alive.”

Frank whistled softly.

“That is agreeable information! So you mean to murder me?”

“You would have lured away the Pearl of Tangier.”

“And you would force her to marry you against her wishes, you old
reprobate! And you are old enough to be her father—yes, her grandfather!
You ought to be tarred and feathered!”

Ali Mustaf looked as if he longed to sink his glittering dagger in the
heart of the dauntless youth.

“Your tongue shall be torn out by the roots!” he grated, furiously.
“Your body shall be cast to the swine, Christian dog!”

“You continue to make pleasant promises; but you may discover it is not
possible to make them all good. I expect to be frisking around on _terra
firma_ long years after you are sleeping sweetly under the daisies.”

Having walked into the trap, Frank was determined not to show a tremor,
knowing it would be the worse for him if these men saw that he
entertained the least fear.

Azza had crawled to his feet, and he was keeping his beady eyes on the
boy, a savage expression on his crafty face. Plainly he longed to have
revenge for the blow that had driven him like a bag of sawdust against
the wall.

The girl had remained speechless since entering the room, much to
Frank’s surprise. He had thought she would be much wrought up over the
appearance of her uncle and Ali Mustaf, but she betrayed no emotion.

Sudden suspicion assailed the boy. Could it be possible that she had
conspired to lead him into this trap?

“Igela,” he cried, “did you know these men were lying in wait for me? It
is not possible that you betrayed me.”

“She did,” declared Ali Mustaf, with fierce satisfaction. “She brought
you here that we might finish you this time.”

“I will not believe it! It is not possible she could be capable of such
treachery! Tell me it is not true, Igela! Speak! Say this old wretch
lies!”

“It is true!” said the girl. “I aided them in trapping you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER IV.

A BOY OF NERVE.

Never in his life was Frank Merriwell more taken aback and chagrined
than at that moment. He could scarcely believe he had heard aright.

Ali Mustaf laughed harshly.

“See what a fool you have been, Christian dog!” he sneered.

Azza, the treacherous servant, joined in the laughter.

“I aided her in trapping you,” he declared.

“Which is certainly something to be very proud of,” came contemptuously
from the boy. “But you shall receive your just deserts, you dirty
wretch!”

Now Frank was thoroughly aroused, and he showed his anger in his
flashing eyes. He had walked into the snare against the warnings of his
better judgment, but he had not dreamed of treachery on the part of the
girl. Even now he could not understand why she should betray him.

“How have I wronged you that you should do such a thing?” he asked,
earnestly. “Tell me that, Igela!”

She turned away, something like a smothered laugh coming from beyond the
veil that concealed her face.

Such treachery appalled Frank, and filled him with wonder unutterable.
He could not understand it. Had he been lured to that place to be
plundered? Was it possible that this fair girl who was known as the
Pearl of Tangier was the decoy that secured victims for a set of robbers
and assassins?

Even if this were true, it did not explain how she happened to know his
name, when she saw him in the Square of Tangier for the first time.

All at once Frank started. His eyes had fallen on the girl’s hand, and
he was filled with astonishment.

One swift step the boy took, and then he made a spring, crying:

“I propose to see the face of the one who betrayed me!”

In a twinkling he had snatched away the veil which concealed the face of
the girl.

The face of a coal-black negress was revealed!

“Igela!” exclaimed the boy, scornfully. “You are not Igela!”

The girl fell back against the wall, with a cry of fear.

Ben Ahmet and Ali Mustaf uttered fierce oaths in their beards, starting
toward the boy.

In the twinkling of an eye Frank whipped out both his revolvers,
retreated till his back was against the wall, and cheerfully called:

“Walk right up, gentlemen—walk up and take your medicine! You shall
receive it in large and liberal doses. Walk up—walk up!”

It is needless to state that they were in no hurry about accepting his
pleasant invitation. The sight of those glittering revolvers brought
them to an abrupt halt.

“What think you, dog of a Christian?” snarled Ali Mustaf. “Do you fancy
you can fight us all?”

“Well, I can make it mighty warm for you.”

“And do you fancy there is a chance for you to escape from this place
alive?”

“You can never make an American give up till he is dead. As long as
there is a spark of life remaining in his body he will fight.”

“But the odds, miserable boy—think of that.”

“Three men and a treacherous black wench against one Yankee boy—why,
that is nothing at all. Don’t think you can frighten me in that way,
Ali, old boy.”

“Ha! Think you that is all? Fool! There is but one way that you can
leave this room, and it is by this passage. Look!”

The cadi flung open the door at his back, and the light showed Frank
that the passage was literally filled with dark-faced ruffians, all of
whom were armed to the teeth. They would have swarmed into the room, but
Ali Mustaf bade them remain where they were, and closed the door again.

The crafty Moor turned to the boy, expecting to see him overcome with
fear. He was much astonished to note that Frank stood up with a
dauntless look on his handsome face, showing not the least sign of
trepidation.

“Fool!” snarled the cadi once more. “Do you understand what you have
seen? Or are your wits too dull for that?”

“I understand that I have seen a lot of cutthroats who are awaiting the
call to do your dirty work,” was the calm reply.

“By the beard of the Prophet! you are a strange youth! You must know
they are longing to shed your blood. They hate and despise all
Christians, and to them it is a great delight to shed the blood of a
Christian dog. If I gave the signal, they would rush in here and cut you
down.”

“Very good. But you will not give the signal.”

“I will not?”

“No.”

“Why not, dog?”

“Because it would be the signal for your death.”

“What mean you?”

“I mean that I should take particular pains to send a bullet through
your wretched carcass the instant the signal was given.”

Ali Mustaf’s swarthy skin grew sallow, and he recoiled a bit.

“Allah save me!” he muttered, in Arabic. “The young dog means it! It is
a marvel that he has no fear.”

Then the two Moors exchanged some words, keeping their eyes upon Frank
all the while.

Frank well understood the peril of his situation, and he felt that all
the chances were against him. At the same time he had no thought of
giving up as long as he could struggle for his life.

While the men were consulting together Frank’s brain was busy trying to
devise some plan of escape. He felt that much depended on his wits.

In a few moments Ali Mustaf turned to the boy once more.

“Put down your weapons,” commanded the old tax-gatherer, with a severe
frown. “Put them down at once. You can never escape alive if you
threaten, but I may decide to spare you if you surrender quietly.”

Frank laughed scornfully.

“Because I walked into this trap so quietly it is plain that you believe
me a much greater fool than I am,” he said. “I do not propose to
surrender myself a helpless captive into your hands; but I do propose to
hold you a prisoner till I am once more safe in the streets of Tangier.”

“By my beard!” gasped the cadi. “Who ever heard of such impudence! Boy,
you must be insane!”

“Think you so? Well, madmen are dangerous, and I advise you to look out
for me. If you do not obey my orders there is no telling what I may see
fit to do to you.”

“Your orders!” frothed Ali Mustaf. “Dog! I am not your slave!”

“But you are my captive, and I shall shoot you full of holes if you try
to skip me. That is plain United States, and I trust you understand it
thoroughly.”

Once more the cadi turned to Ben Ahmet, speaking a few low, swift words.
Immediately the old sheriff would have left the room, but Frank’s voice
rang out sharply:

“Tell him to stop, Ali Mustaf—tell him to stop, or I will shoot him!”

It was not necessary for Ali Mustaf to repeat the boy’s words. Ben Ahmet
seemed to understand, and he stopped, grinding out an Arabic oath.

“Good enough!” nodded Frank. “Now we will get down to business. Ali
Mustaf, you must do as I direct, if you have any desire to prolong your
existence in this vale of tears. I am the ringmaster in this little
circus, and I am liable to use the whip.”

“What would you have me do?” sullenly growled the cadi.

“First, I would have you cast down that knife. Drop it, you old pirate,
or I’ll drop you!”

Frank’s eyes flashed, and Ali Mustaf made haste to cast aside the
dagger, as if it had suddenly grown red-hot.

“So far it is all right,” nodded the determined youth. “Now you are to
order your side-partner, Uncle Ben, of the profuse whiskers, to drop his
scimiter. That is a real ugly looking weapon, and I wouldn’t care to
have it frisking around my neck.”

The cadi spoke to Ben Ahmet, and the sheriff reluctantly dropped the
curved weapon.

“What next, dog?” sullenly demanded Ali Mustaf. “Do you think you have
one chance in a thousand of escaping? Then you deceive yourself
greatly.”

“That’s all right; don’t you worry about me. Just do as I tell you, if
you are anxious about your own health. Something further, Ali, old boy,
and that is you’ve altogether too familiar a manner of addressing me as
‘dog.’ I don’t like it. It is not my name, and I object to it.
Hereafter, you will not use it when you speak to me. Do you catch on?”

The cadi snarled again, showing his yellow teeth through his grizzly
beard.

“Now,” coolly continued Frank, “the next thing on the programme will be
something else. You are to step to the door and order the gang of
dusky-skinned followers of the True Prophet outside to retire. You are
to inform them that everything is settled in here, and you will not need
their assistance.”

Ali Mustaf seemed quite ready to do this, but Frank checked him
immediately, calling out sharply:

“Hold on a bit! I want to say this much: Although I do not speak Arabic,
I can understand it pretty well, and it will not be pleasant for you if
you tell the slaves outside anything but what I have directed. If you do
tell them anything different, so help me Jack Robinson, I’ll put two or
three bullets between your shoulder blades! Go ahead, old boy.”

Ali Mustaf hesitated, his face black as a stormcloud. And as he
hesitated he saw something that caused a wild, exultant light of triumph
to leap into his eyes.

Behind Frank a panel in the wall opened noiselessly. At the opening
appeared a black face, and then a pair of powerful black hands closed
around the throat of the unfortunate boy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER V.

THE DUNGEON.

Those iron fingers crushed into flesh and sinew till the bones of Frank
Merriwell’s neck cracked with the terrible pressure. He could not cry
out, he could not breathe, he could not turn about and face his unseen
assailant.

In a moment Frank dropped his revolvers and clutched at those hands,
seized the wrists, and tried to tear them away.

All in vain!

The black man beyond the panel seemed to have the strength of a Samson
and be possessed with a fiendish desire to crush the life out of the
boy.

There was a buzzing sound in Frank’s head, and it swiftly swelled to a
roar. A blood-red mist swam and swayed before his eyes, and through this
he saw the exultant faces of Ali Mustaf and Ben Ahmet grinning.

Frank felt that he must tear those iron hands from his throat or he was
lost, and he made frantic efforts to do so, but the frightful pressure
had robbed him of his strength, and his efforts were like the struggles
of an infant.

Then it seemed that many lights flared before his vision, rockets burst
into scintillating stars of ten thousand colors, and all the universe
was whirling through a fiery sea of space.

The roaring in his head had swelled to the thunder of a Niagara, and
then died to the soft murmur of a lapping brook. He seemed to hear
tinkling fountains, delightful music and sweet voices calling, calling,
calling——

Frank sat up. All was dark and dank about him, with a musty, underground
smell. He drew his breath with difficulty, and there was a terrible pain
in his throat and neck, which now and then sent a dagger dart to the
very top of his head. He knew something had happened, and he felt that
he had been injured, but his senses were confused, and he could not
remember.

He put out one hand. It touched a slimy wall of stone. He felt beneath
him. Wet ground there. He put out the other hand. Nothingness.

Then he heard some one breathing heavily close at hand, and the
sound—harsh, rasping, blood-chilling, like the gasping of a strangling
person—seemed to turn him to stone for some minutes. He sat there,
listening to that horrible breathing, fully convinced that a mortally
wounded human being was dying near at hand.

As he sat thus, with a rush, memory returned. He knew he had been led
into a trap by treacherous Azza. He remembered holding off the two old
Moors until he had been seized by an unseen assailant, and then——

That frightful sound continued near at hand, turning the boy’s blood icy
cold. Had he been thrown into a dungeon where lay some other victim of
the blood-thirsty Moors—some other unfortunate Christian, it might be?
He held his breath to listen, and the sound stopped.

“He is dead!” thought the horrified lad.

But, a moment later, the rasping breathing began again, and then Frank
made a singular discovery.

The sounds came from his own throat, which had been fearfully crushed by
the iron fingers which had fastened on it.

He lifted his hand to his neck, and found it terribly sore to his touch.

“It is a wonder that I am yet alive,” he told himself.

And then came the thought that it might be much better for him if he
were dead and out of his misery.

Beyond a doubt he was a prisoner, confined in some horrible place,
doomed to perish there alone.

Alone! That was a terrifying thought. It seemed even more horrible than
his fancy of a few seconds before that a dying man was near.

A sudden desire to cry out, to shout, to scream, came upon him. He
opened his lips to do so, but no more than a hoarse gasp, that was half
a groan, came from them.

He was seized by a feeling of despair—a mad longing to spring up and
rush away somewhere, anywhere.

Staggeringly, feebly he got upon his feet, but then he was seized by
another fear, and he stood still.

Dense and fearful darkness lay all around him, and he could not see what
pitfalls might be on every hand.

The situation was one to chill the strongest heart, to turn the blood of
the bravest man to water.

“This is some secret dungeon beneath the city, and I shall never escape
from it of my own efforts,” thought the boy. “Who is there to save me?
The professor does not know I left the hotel. I could not tell him, for
he would have forbidden it. I was forced to leave Ephraim behind to take
up the attention of the professor while I got out. Ephraim knows I was
going somewhere to meet this mysterious Igela, as I supposed, but he
does not know where I was going. How will they trace me?”

That was a question to which he could not find a ready answer.

“Even if Ephraim and the professor were to confront Ali Mustaf and Ben
Ahmet and accuse them, the two rascally old wretches would plead utter
ignorance, and there is little chance for a Christian to obtain his
rights in this country. The professor might get the United States Consul
to do something, but I have my doubts.”

Frank fully understood how desperate and almost hopeless his situation
must be. At first he wondered that he had not been killed outright, and
then he came to believe that Ali Mustaf and Ben Ahmet had hated him so
that they had thrown him into the dark underground place to perish by
inches in order that he might suffer wretchedly. And then it was
possible that they had believed him dead when they cast him in there.

For all of the boy’s gloomy thoughts, he found his strength returning,
and strength brought hope. He would not give up as long as life and
energy were left in his body.

But what could he do?

“If I had a light!”

He uttered the words aloud, finding that his voice had regained its
power in a measure, but it sounded hoarse, unnatural and muffled.

As the words left his lips, there was a sudden squeaking and a hurried
scampering sound that seemed to make his hair stand up.

“Rats!”

They were there in large numbers.

“Great Scott!” gasped the boy. “I had rather face a tiger than a swarm
of rats in a dark cellar!”

Nervously he felt through his pockets. His purse was gone, but it had
not contained much money. Not a weapon was left him, his clasp-knife
having been taken, with other things.

Then he uttered a cry of joy.

His fingers had found his waterproof match safe, which he constantly
carried.

That had not been taken from him.

“A match!” he palpitated. “That will show me something!”

In another moment he had taken the match safe from his pocket, but, in
his nervousness, he dropped it.

With a muttered exclamation of dismay, he stooped to find it.

A moment later a gasping cry of horror came from his lips.

His hands touched something cold and slippery, and that touch was enough
to make him shudder and quake.

Frank fell back, and for some minutes he crouched there in the darkness
of that terrible place, feeling cold chills run down his back.

“I must have those matches,” he finally muttered, although the words
were broken and unsteady. “It is a case of must, and I’ll find them,
even if I have to feel the thing all over.”

He seemed to feel himself in the midst of unseen horrors, and he longed
to rush from the spot, but he knew that there would not be one chance in
a hundred of his finding the matches if he moved away.

Setting his teeth and nerving himself for the task, he felt about for
the match safe—and found it!

With a feeling of unutterable joy and relief he clutched the metallic
case. His fingers found the spring, and it opened to his touch.

Snap—splutter—flare!

A match was lighted. It flared up, and then burned steadily.

Frank immediately looked for the object which he had touched, and there
it was before him—a human skeleton.

The bones were stripped clean of flesh, and the skull grinned up at him
in a ghastly manner. The light of the burning match glistened on the
white spots, and showed a dank, green mold that was forming in places on
the skeleton.

It was a most ghastly and nerve-shaking spectacle.

All at once, as Frank stood there, turned to stone, staring at the
uncanny object, the skull began to rock from side to side! It was no
hallucination—it actually moved!

To the staring, astounded and horrified lad it seemed that the thing was
about to speak. Indeed, Frank found himself listening, with hushed
breath and stilled heart, for the hollow-sounding words that should
issue from that fleshless head.

The boy was spellbound—hypnotized with horror.

And then, just as the flame of the match burned his fingers, a
half-grown rat darted out of the skull and scampered away.

The match fell and lay, a dying spark, on the damp ground.

In a moment the boy had lighted another match. He looked at the
skeleton. It now lay silent and motionless, but scarcely less terrible
to the eye.

“A victim of those miserable old Moors,” thought Frank. “And this
foretells my own fate! I am to die here, and my bones are to bleach and
rot beside the bones of this unfortunate wretch, who was, perhaps, a
Christian like myself.”

Then he was seized by a tempest of rage, an ungovernable fury against
the men who had cast him into that dungeon of death. He longed for the
power to slay them, to blot them from the face of the earth.

“God help me!” he madly cried. “I must not die here—I will not die here!
I will live to get square with them!”

Hours passed, and every hour seemed a day.

Frank explored the place where he was confined, and found it a large
underground vault or cellar. There was a passage leading from it to some
slippery stairs of stone. At the head of the stairs was a stone door.
Hercules could not have moved that door from its position.

Frank explored all parts of his prison, and what he discovered was of a
most discouraging nature.

There seemed no possible way of escaping.

Most boys would have given up in despair, but Frank still clung to hope,
vowing he would live to “get square” with his captors.

His matches were running low, and the thought of being left with no
redemption from continued darkness was far from pleasant.

He had returned to the spot where he had found the skeleton, when he was
startled to hear a jarring, scraping sound far along the passage.

In a moment the boy was on the alert, his heart thumping violently, his
whole body quivering with excitement.

Some one was coming.

At the farther end of the passage there was seen a gleam of light.

“They are coming to finish me!” thought Frank. “It must be that. Well,
they may have a heavy job.”

He had no weapon save his bare hands, but he was desperate, and he felt
capable of coping with several men. He would be fighting for his life,
and he would possess all the fury of a cornered tiger.

The light moved, and he could see that its bearer was coming down the
steps of stone, moving rapidly.

Swiftly the boy moved toward the passage, making no noise. He would be
ready to meet the bearer of the light the moment the vault was entered.

Peering along the passage, he saw a strange figure approaching—a girl,
muffled and veiled, holding a lighted lamp of quaint and curious make
above her head.

Her face below the eyes was hidden by a veil.

“Can it be?” thought Frank, in amazement. “Is this Igela! or is it the
black wench that entrapped me?”

The flaring light was of a baffling nature, and he could not make out
much save that it was a girl beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The thumping of his heart became so loud that he feared she must hear
it. He pressed one hand over it, trying to smother the sound of its
heavy and rapid pulsations. Through his head the blood was rushing like
a riotous, roaring river.

His mind was filled with a thousand wild conjectures and speculations.
His thoughts were in a mad tumult.

It seemed to the eager boy that the girl advanced with the slowness of a
snail, and still he dreaded to have her come nearer. Never before in his
life had he been so wrought up, and he began to realize that his
confinement in that horrible place had worked havoc with his nerves.

Many of the sensations Frank experienced as he waited for the girl to
approach were new to him, and he wondered at himself. A thought that he
must go mad if forced to remain long in that vault flashed like a
bloodied rocket through his brain.

Then he noticed that the hand of the girl which held the lamp was
shaking as if she had the palsy. It was a fair, plump hand, but it
seemed about to loose its hold and let the lamp fall.

The girl halted, and it was plain that she was nearly overcome with
fear. She seemed on the verge of flight.

“She must not run away now!” thought the excited youth. “If she tries
it, I shall overtake her before she can reach the steps.”

He bent forward, ready to make a dash if she turned to retreat.

“Frank!”

She spoke his name, and it was the voice he had heard once before in the
Square of Tangier. For all that it echoed strangely in that underground
place, he was sure that he recognized it.

“Igela!”

He spoke the name softly, so that she might not be frightened.

He saw her start, saw her lean forward doubtfully, her attitude being
that of a person who fancies he has heard something, but is not sure.

“Igela!”

He repeated the name.

“Allah be praised!” sobbed the girl, again starting forward. “He answers
me! He lives! He is here!”

Then Frank advanced toward her saying:

“I am here, and I am alive.”

She swayed, and he caught the lamp from her hand with a deftness that
saved it from falling. His free arm encircled her. He longed to see the
face hidden by that veil.

In a moment the girl had recovered, and she started from him, saying
swiftly:

“Am I a child that I lose my strength thus! I am strong now. How you
escaped from Bab-el-Maroc I know not. Great was my wonder and joy to see
you in Tangier. Ben Ahmet told me you were dead, and Ali Mustaf swore it
was true.”

Frank was not a little puzzled by her words. He would have questioned
her, but she suddenly started, catching him by the arm, and panting:

“Listen! Is it some one I hear coming this way?”

Both listened, but heard nothing save the rustling movement of a rat.

“We must get away soon,” whispered the girl. “If they should come—if
they should find us here! We must go!”

“But how did you know where to find me?” asked Frank, whose curiosity
was great. “How did you know where they had placed me?”

“I heard them talking. They did not know I was listening. They spoke of
you, saying they had disposed of you at last, and that you would never
escape to trouble them more. I stilled my heart—I listened, and I heard
them say where they had placed you. Then, when my time came, I hastened
here. The door was barred, but with all my strength I dragged the bar
away. Then it was that my courage nearly failed me. I prayed to Allah. I
took up the lamp and here I am.”

“Brave little girl! They had left me here to die—to starve and be
devoured by rats!”

“And I will save you! But, oh, Frank! how are we to get out of Tangier?
I cannot! You must go alone—you must leave me to my fate!”

Her voice broke in a sob, and he drew her closer to him, mystified,
bewildered, but dauntless.

“That I will never do,” he boldly declared. “You shall come with me. We
will seek the protection of the United States Consul. He will aid us.”

“No, Frank, it is not possible. He will have no power to hold me from
Ben Ahmet. It is not possible that we may escape together. That we must
give up. You will be fortunate if you are able to escape with your life.
Come, let us hurry from this place.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER VI.

FRANK’S VISITOR.

He longed to question her more, longed to solve the mystery that
infolded the strange girl, but, well understanding the danger of
discovery by the Moors, he permitted her to lead the way along the
passage.

The stairs were reached, and Igela sprang up them as lightly as a fawn.

At the top of the stairs the heavy door was standing partly open. Beyond
that door they might come face to face with Ben Ahmet and Ali Mustaf.

Frank was not armed. He would have given almost anything for a revolver
at that moment. With such a weapon in his possession, he would have felt
able to cope with half a dozen Moors.

The door was reached, and they passed beyond it, leaving the horrors of
the underground dungeon behind.

Every nerve in Frank’s body was at a high tension, and he was ready for
anything they might encounter.

They came into a long, low room, the walls of which were bare and
whitewashed. The room was unfurnished and gloomy, with no opening
windows to admit light and air.

Igela led the way through this room and into a passage, where she paused
to listen, her hand trembling on Frank’s arm. He grasped her fingers,
and gave them a reassuring pressure.

Then they stole along the passage, making as little noise as possible.
Past a door that looked into an empty room they made their way, and, as
they came to a strong door, Igela made him put out the light.

In the darkness his arm stole around her, and she let him hold her thus
while she listened.

Being satisfied that all was well, she opened the door, and a rush of
air smote Frank in the face, telling him that the door opened to the
outside world.

How grateful that fresh air was to the boy who had been imprisoned in a
place that was close and dank! He drew it into his lungs with a keen
sense of delight, and he seemed to become himself once more—cool, nervy,
self-reliant.

But they were not yet on the street, as he quickly discovered. They were
in the court which he had once before crossed that night.

There was no moon, but the stars told that the night was well spent, and
morning approaching. Igela seemed to read the stars, for she whispered:

“We must hasten. You must be far from here when day comes.”

Across the court they hurried, passed through another door and another
passage, and came at last to a door that let them out upon the street.

They had seen no one—not even a sleeping servant. Fortunate, indeed, had
they been, and Frank felt that Providence had smiled on them.

“You are free,” whispered Igela, with something like a sob. “Go! We
shall never meet again. Leave Tangier without delay. Ben Ahmet has the
sultan’s favor, and the sultan is all powerful here. Go, Frank! May
Allah protect you! Farewell.”

He did not release her.

“I will not go like this!” came swiftly from his lips. “I must know the
truth—I must understand this mystery. Igela, lift that veil. The stars
are bright, and my eyes have become accustomed to darkness. I must see
your face. Lift your veil!”

She raised her hand to obey, and, at that moment, it seemed as if the
very heavens came crashing and thundering upon Frank’s head. He fell
prostrate upon the ground, where he lay like a creature death-stricken
by a thunderbolt!

How long he lay insensible in the street Frank never knew. When his
senses returned and he sat up, he saw an old water carrier staring
wild-eyed at him.

Frank spoke to the man, but the water carrier seemed frightened, and
hastened away, muttering prayers in the Berber tongue.

And now the terrible pain that had been in his throat was in his head.
He put up his hand, and it was red with blood when he took it away.

“I was struck down,” he muttered.

It was morning. In the East was a gray light that was spreading and
growing rosy. It was the blush of the newly risen day.

In a short time the boy gathered his scattered wits. He remembered all
that had happened—remembered that Igela had aided him to
escape—remembered that the heavens had seemed to crash upon his head
just as she was about to lift her veil.

And he had not seen her face! To him she remained a baffling mystery.

Who struck him down?

What had become of her?

Then came another question that puzzled him more than all.

Why had he not been slain?

He looked around. Near at hand was a small door set in the bare white
wall. It was firmly closed.

“We came out of there,” he told himself. “Some one must have been in
that nook near by. We were seen, and I was knocked over. Then she was
dragged back.”

The thought made him feel desperate. He longed to arise and batter down
the door, walk into the house, and save her from her persecutors.

“I am faint and weak and I can do nothing. I will mark this spot, so I
may find my way back to it.”

Then he arose and moved away with an uncertain step, having taken note
of the appearance of the door, so he felt sure he would recognize it if
he saw it again.

Tangier is not an easy city for a foreigner to find his way through, as
Frank discovered. He moved slowly, noting every peculiarity of the
narrow, crooked street.

Muffled figures passed him, gazing aslant at him from beneath beetling
brows. All seemed to wonder that a foreigner and a Christian should be
astir, wandering through the streets at that hour in the morning.

That was what Frank fancied at first, but he finally lifted his hand to
his throbbing head again, and he understood why they stared at him so
strangely.

He was hatless, and the blood from his wound had dripped down the side
of his face. He knew he must be an object to attract the curiosity of
any beholder.

He found the square, and then it was not difficult to make his way to
the hotel.

As Frank had expected, he found Professor Scotch and Ephraim nearly
distracted with fear and suspense. When they saw him their joy was
boundless.

It did not take the lad long to relate his adventures, having first
bathed the wound on his head, and bound it up with a cloth.

“Well, for genuine downright foolhardiness!” began the professor.

“You should remember that I was in the company of Azza, your trusted
servant,” said Frank, smiling grimly.

“Hang that rascal! If I ever get hold of him— Well, he will wish I
hadn’t! He ought to be horse-whipped!”

“He’d oughter be shot!” cried Ephraim.

“Well, I scarcely fancy we shall see him again while we remain in
Tangier,” said Frank, quietly. “That does not worry me nearly so much as
the mystery that surrounds the Pearl of Tangier. If I do not find a way
to solve that mystery I shall regret it all my life. She must be saved
from those miserable old Moors.”

“It is easy to say that, my boy; but how are we to save her?”

“You must lay the case before the United States Consul, professor.”

“What good would that do? He would have no right to interfere between a
girl and her uncle, who is her lawful guardian. It is not possible for
us to help her now.”

“That’s pleasant! But you do not know, professor.”

“I know that we are going to get out of this city as soon as possible.
You will be killed if we remain here much longer.”

“Professor, in the United States you are my guardian, but we are in a
heathen country now, and I refuse to be dragged away till I am sure I
have done everything in my power to aid that unfortunate girl.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“No; but my manhood has been appealed to, and I feel that it is my duty
to save her, if I can.”

“Yeou may not be in love with her,” drawled Ephraim; “but, by thutter!
she’s smashed on yeou.”

“There is something remarkable about that,” said Frank. “The girl seems
to know me, and she speaks as if there had been something between us in
the past. That seems impossible, for I have no recollection of her, and
she appears to be a devout little Mohammedan. Is this not mystery enough
to pique the curiosity of anybody?”

“Your curiosity may cost you your life.”

“Oh, you are a croaker, professor. Besides my curiosity to know more
about the girl, I want to get even with Ali Mustaf and Ben Ahmet, as I
swore I would when I was a captive in that underground dungeon.”

Professor Scotch made a gesture of despair.

“Wait till I get you back to the United States!” he cried. “I’ll throw
up my job as your guardian quicker than a wink.”

The professor found it useless to argue with the boy, and he gave it up.

Frank remembered what Igela had said about Bab-el-Maroc, and he sought
to know what she meant. He found out that there was a gate of the city
of Fez by that name, and also a castle so called.

The castle belonged to Ben Ahmet, and was situated outside of Fez.

Igela had spoken of Frank’s escape from Bab-el-Maroc, but the boy had
never been there, which made the mystery all the deeper.

Having eaten breakfast, and rested through much of the forenoon, Frank
accompanied the professor on a visit to Mr. Adams, the United States
Consul.

The houses occupied by the members of the foreign legations were
situated near the square. They were all very modest little buildings,
but they had the appearance of palaces in the midst of the paltry
dwellings by which they were surrounded.

Mr. Adams received the professor pleasantly, and shook hands with Frank,
saying:

“It really does one good to look into the face of a lively, wide-awake
American youth.”

Seated in the cozy little parlor, Frank related the story of his
adventures since entering Tangier.

Mr. Adams listened with interest which grew to wonder and astonishment.
By the time Frank had finished the man was breathless. “My boy, my boy!”
he exclaimed, “you are indeed fortunate to be alive! Ben Ahmet is rich
and powerful, and has the favor of the sultan. If he had murdered you,
you never would have been heard of again, and all efforts to trace you
would have been baffled. You are only a ‘Christian dog,’ and your life
is of little consequence in this miserable land.”

“But the girl,” cried Frank; “can nothing be done to save her from old
Ali Mustaf, whom she loathes?”

“I fear not. It is in the power of Ben Ahmet to make her marry whoever
he may choose, and Ali Mustaf will get her, if Ben Ahmet wills it so.”

Such a thing was terrible for the boy to contemplate, and it did not
seem possible that there was no law to prevent it. It was almost
impossible for Frank to realize that he was in a land where might ruled
with a heavy, blood-stained hand, and where the innocent and helpless
cried out in vain for mercy and justice.

“I do not propose to give up,” declared Frank, resolutely. “Fortune has
smiled on me many times, and it may smile again. It is not very far
across the straits to Spain. In Spain we could defy Ben Ahmet and Ali
Mustaf to drag Igela back to Morocco.”

“But what could you do with her if you succeeded in getting her out of
the country? She is a Moorish maiden, and it is scarcely probable that
you want to marry her.”

“I would not permit it if he did!” roared Scotch.

“I am not contemplating matrimony just at present,” smiled Frank. “But I
am determined to solve this mystery, and I will succeed.”

Mr. Adams shook his head gravely.

“You are rash and headstrong,” he said. “Take my advice and let the
Pearl of Tangier alone.”

He refused to aid Frank in any way, but was courteous and polite. When
Frank and the professor left the house and started to return to the
hotel the boy’s heart felt like lead in his bosom.

Shortly after the hotel was reached Ephraim Gallup came rushing into
their room, caught hold of Frank excitedly, and spluttered.

“Gol derned ef yeou hain’t lost her naow!”

“What do you mean?” demanded the other boy.

“She’s gone.”

“Who?”

“Igela.”

“Gone where?”

“Flew the coop—left the city.”

“How do you know?”

“Saw um go.”

“Saw them? Whom?”

“Igela, Ali Mustaf, Ben Ahmet and a gang of black-skinned fellers, all
armed to the teeth. They rode away after a caravan. I was jest ramblin’
araound, an’ I got outside the city, so that’s haow I happened to see um
go.”

“Are you sure it was Igela?”

“Yep. She saw me.”

“She did?”

“Yep. So did Ben Ahmet. By thutteration! it’s a mighty good thing I’ve
got long laigs. Ef I hedn’t I wouldn’t be here naow. Old Ben sot three
uv them black fellers arter me, an’ yeou’d oughter seen me tear up the
dust an’ git aout uv that. They chased me a piece, yellin’ like mad, but
I got erway, an’ here I be.”

Frank took a quick turn up and down the room.

“So they have dragged Igela away!” he muttered. “Without doubt, they are
bound for Fez and the castle of Bab-el-Maroc. I shall follow.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER VII.

A MAD VENTURE.

Frank was determined. Professor Scotch objected in vain. He appealed to
Ephraim, and the Yankee lad said:

“I’ll stick ter Frank. I don’t keer where he goes!”

Frank set about pleading the professor to succumb, and he was persuasive
to a degree that astounded Ephraim. Indeed, it seemed that the boy
almost hypnotized Scotch and led him to consent to follow the old Moors
who were carrying Igela away.

The professor himself was amazed when he gave in, and he remained in a
dazed condition while Frank called the proprietor of the hotel and
bargained for three horses, which he instructed the professor to pay
for.

The horses were quickly furnished, and Scotch paid for them, muttering a
feeble remonstrance, but feeling unable to resist the power of the boy’s
steady eyes, which never left his face for an instant.

Frank had triumphed, but he showed no exultation. His face was grim and
set, and it seemed that he had formed a resolution from which nothing
could turn him.

In company with the professor and Ephraim, he went out to seek
information. He learned that two caravans had lately started for Fez,
either of which might be overtaken by nightfall by hard riding.

That was what he wished to know.

Ali Mustaf and Ben Ahmet would travel with one of those caravans. Frank,
Ephraim and the professor would travel with the other. Frank would bide
his time, and he felt sure he would be able to meet Igela and speak with
her.

It was a wild and desperate project at which a man would have hesitated,
but Frank was a youth to whom nothing seemed impossible.

Back to the hotel they went. While they ate, the horses were ordered
saddled and brought around. Frank had looked them over, and found them
tough little Arab horses, looking as if they could travel and stand
hardship. That satisfied him.

After eating, Frank went to his trunk, from which he took a brace of
revolvers, having lost his others the night before. In his trunk he also
carried a light, short-barreled Winchester repeater, and this he took
out.

His eyes fell on the magician’s cabinet, and a thought struck him. He
hesitated, and then muttered:

“Who knows? These Moors are superstitious, and they might prove
valuable. I will take such as I can carry.”

From the cabinet he extracted numerous things which he concealed about
his person. Among other things was a small electric battery.

Ephraim armed himself in a manner similar to Frank.

The professor had a strong aversion for firearms, and so he went about
entirely unarmed.

Frank did not forget to take some strong field glasses.

When everything was ready they descended and left the hotel.

Three black men were holding the horses at the door, and the proprietor
was there to see them off.

“How far are you going?” he asked, regarding them curiously.

“Not far,” answered Frank. “It is probable you will see us back
to-morrow.”

The proprietor shook his head gravely.

“I fear for that,” he said. “You had better keep within a few miles of
the city, for the plains at a distance are infested with robber bands,
any of which would not hesitate to do murder. I do not understand why
you are going outside the city, anyway, for there is nothing to be
seen.”

Frank was not inclined to satisfy his curiosity, and they rode away,
waving him a farewell, which he returned.

Not till they were beyond the city’s limits did the professor think that
he had not told his friend, the United States Consul, of this foolhardy
expedition. He would have turned back at once, but Frank said:

“Very well, professor, you may go; but we shall not wait for you, as we
have no time to lose if we hope to overtake one of those caravans before
nightfall.”

The professor had turned his horse about. A groan left his lips, and it
changed to a cry of horror as he lifted his eyes to the high posts which
stood on either side of the gate in the white wall of the city.

“Look!” he gasped. “It is horrible!”

The boys looked, and on each of those posts they saw a human head that
had been severed from the body. These heads had been suspended by the
hair to some curved points which projected from the posts, and they hung
there in all their ghastly horror, dripping blood and gazing with
sightless eyes toward the desert for which the boys and the professor
were bound.

“Wal, I be gol derned!” gurgled Ephraim, his voice sounding husky and
catching in his throat. “Them’s purty things to look at!”

“They are heads of criminals,” explained Frank. “I have heard that it is
the custom of this country to suspend the heads of criminals at the
gates of the cities in this manner. They are placed there as a warning
to others.”

“A warning to us,” said the professor, his voice shaking. “It tells us
we had better get out of this wretched country without delay. It is a
warning to be heeded.”

“Nonsense! Come on, professor; we are losing time.”

“Go on! I am going back.”

“Good-by, professor.”

At a signal from Frank the two lads rode onward.

The professor watched them a few moments, and then rode after them,
calling:

“Hold on; I will go.”

Of this Frank had felt confident all the time.

Away to the south they rode, having been told to bear a little to the
east. Frank had a compass, and he did not believe they would get lost in
the desert so they could not find their way out.

Long, level plains lay before them. Here and there they could see small
huts made of sun-baked clay.

Occasionally they passed by fields where some crude efforts at tilling
the soil had been made, but the greater part of the country was bleak
and bare.

The sun beat down mercilessly on the bare plain. The grass was withered
and brown, and patches of sandy soil reflected the heat.

There were no roads, but for some time after leaving Tangier they could
follow in the track made by many caravans that had passed that way.
Gradually this track became fainter and fainter, till at last it was
lost entirely.

The solitude of the plains was depressing, the silence was awesome.

Frank began to realize the magnitude of his undertaking, and, for the
first time, he doubted the wisdom of the attempt; but he said nothing,
riding onward in silence, his face firm and resolute.

Professor Scotch was silent and gloomy, while Ephraim’s jests seemed to
fall flat and be lost on the others.

The sun swung lower and lower, but its rays seemed to lose none of their
scorching heat.

“What ef we should not find one of them air carryvans ter-night, Frank?”
asked Ephraim, rather anxiously.

“We will find it in the morning,” was the calm reply.

Scotch groaned.

“And have to stay all alone on the desert to-night,” he exclaimed. “We
would be devoured a hundred times by wild beasts.”

“It’s not wild beasts we have to fear so much as wild men,” said Frank.
“We must keep our eyes about us.”

“What’d we eat for supper?” asked the boy from Vermont, who possessed a
very healthy appetite. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

“We would not eat until we found the caravan in the morning.”

“If we did not find the caravan,” put in the professor, “we might
starve. There is a fine chance to starve out here.”

“I scarcely think we will starve. I have provided for that.”

“You have? Why, you have brought no provisions.”

“No; but I have brought something that will keep us from starving.”

“What is it?”

“Some nuts.”

“What kind of nuts?”

“Koola nuts, which I found in Bakalailand, far to the south. The natives
down there eat this nut when they cannot obtain food, and it keeps up
their strength and preserves them from hunger for many days. It is a
wonderful little nut, but it is dangerous.”

“Haow’s that?” asked Ephraim.

“It is a very easy thing to fall into the habit of eating it to obtain
relief from over-exertion, and this habit fastens itself on a person
like drinking or smoking. It shows no ill result at first, but it is
ruinous to one who persists in its use. It will make such a person a
tottering wreck, like a victim of the morphine habit. Like all good
things, the koola nut may be used to excess. In the United States
several concerns advertise decoctions made from the koola nut,
recommending them to athletes, bicyclists and all who exert themselves
in sports and pastimes. College lads are taking to its use, in case they
play football, baseball or anything of the sort. Some of them will
become addicted to the habit, and it may ruin them. Bicyclists have
found it refreshing and invigorating after a long run, and they are
becoming victims of the habit. Hundreds, yes thousands, will be weakened
and broken down by it. It is——”

“Hold on, Frank,” cried Ephraim. “Jest let the kooly nut rest a while,
an’ see what you make uv this.”

He pointed across the plain to where a tiny cloud of dust could be seen.
In the midst of the dust was a moving mass that became more and more
distinct with each passing moment.

“Horsemen,” said Frank Merriwell, grimly. “Look to your weapons,
Ephraim. We may have trouble.”

Professor Scotch’s teeth chattered.

“We are all done for!” he groaned. “This is the end of this foolish
expedition. I knew how it would come.”

“Wal, we’ll raise a little rumpus before they chaw us up,” said Ephraim,
in his quaint way. “I’d feel a little safer ef I was to hum on the farm,
but ef I’ve gotter fight I’ll fight fer all I am worth, yeou bet!”

Frank was examining his rifle, making sure it was in perfect working
order.

The body of horsemen approached with great swiftness, so that in a short
time they could be seen quite distinctly. Frank surveyed them through
his field glass.

They numbered more than half a hundred, and were dressed in long,
flowing robes of many colors. About their heads they wore turbans. They
were armed with muskets.

Beyond the horsemen Frank saw a caravan of camels that was approaching,
and he immediately decided that the people of the caravan had seen
himself and his companions and had sent out the band of horsemen to
intercept them.

“Ten to one they are Ben Ahmet’s vassals,” was his thought. “It is
possible he has received word from Tangier that we are on the desert,
and he has sent his slaves to murder us. Well, we will die hard.”

As they approached, the horsemen began shouting and waving their
long-barreled rifles over their heads. They rode recklessly, madly, and
the sound of the horses’ hoofs was like sullen thunder.

The leader was an old man with a long white beard, wearing about his
head a bright-colored turban. He rode his coal-black horse like a youth
of twenty years.

“Jingoes! they can ride!” muttered Frank, admiringly. “They remind me of
American cowboys.”

“They kinder make me think it’s unhealthy araound here,” gurgled
Ephraim. “I’m beginning to wish I hedn’t come.”

“Brace up,” came sharply from Frank. “Everything depends on our nerve
now. If we show signs of weakness, there is not one chance in a hundred
for us. Keep a stiff backbone, Ephraim.”

“It’s a fine thing to say ‘brace up,’” fluttered the agitated professor,
“but what show have we against that gang of cutthroats?”

“We are not going to lie down and die, professor.”

Of a sudden, with a wild yell, the horsemen divided and swept around the
party in opposite directions, passed and swept around again.

“Like Indians in the Western States,” breathed Frank, seeing them string
out till there were two parties of horsemen riding in opposite
directions, and both surrounding the professor and the two boys.

These evolutions were continued for some time, with the caravan of
camels steadily approaching while it was going on. When the Arabs had
shown their skill as riders, the old leader, or sheik, gave a signal
that caused them to wheel into one compact mass. Then the chief rode
boldly toward the professor and boys.

“I s’pose he thinks aour hair is standin’ by this time,” drawled
Ephraim.

“Be cool,” directed Frank. “I will meet him.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER VIII.

AMATEUR MAGIC.

Frank dismounted and calmly advanced to meet the old Arab, having given
his rifle to Ephraim.

“What do you desire of us, sir?” asked Frank, as they came near
together.

The old man glowered at the boy, and then asked, in rather poor English:

“Is there no man with you? Ain-el-Khair has no time to waste with boys.”

Frank flushed a bit, drawing himself up proudly, as he returned:

“Though I am a boy, I am the leader of this party. If you have any
business with us, you will do it with me.”

“By the beard of the Prophet, you speak boldly for a youth! But you do
not know me, else you would grovel in the dust at my feet.”

“I am not in the habit of groveling in the dust for any one,” said the
boy, proudly. “I scarcely think I would begin with you.”

The scowl on Ain-el-Khair’s face deepened.

“I say you do not know me,” he repeated.

“Ah, but I know you well,” declared Frank. “You are a robber and a great
rascal. You hate your enemies, and you slay them with delight. Your
hands are stained with blood, but your conscience does not trouble you.”

“Dog of a Christian!” roared the old sheik, quivering with passion. “Do
you dare speak thus to me?”

“Why should I fear? You cannot harm me!”

This statement was sufficient to cause Ain-el-Khair’s face to change
from an expression of fury to one of derision and amusement.

“Fool!” he sneered. “It must be that you have lost your senses. I have
more than half a hundred men behind me, and they would wipe three
Christians off the face of the earth in a moment.”

“If you had a thousand men, you could not harm me. I am protected by a
power you know nothing of.”

The old sheik knew not what to make of the boy, and so he said:

“I will not pass words with you. My followers have arrived, and we must
move on. When you have paid tribute, we will leave you.”

“We shall not pay tribute to you.”

“What? Knave, do you dare refuse? Then I will slay you with my own
hand!”

Ain-el-Khair drew a long-barreled pistol, which he pointed at the boy;
but Frank did not seem at all frightened.

The caravan of camels had halted, and the Arabs were gathered in a group
at a little distance, watching what was passing between the old sheik
and the boy. Much nearer were the professor and Ephraim, who had also
dismounted, their horses standing close at hand.

“I tell you it is not possible for you to harm me, Ain-el-Khair,” Frank
again declared. “If you think you can, take aim and shoot. I dare you to
do so.”

The old robber was not one to be dared in such a manner. He lifted the
long-barreled pistol, and, without hesitation, fired at the boy.

When the pistol spoke Frank pretended to take the bullet from his teeth.
He stood erect and unharmed, holding a round ball of lead between thumb
and finger, smiling at the astounded Arab.

Ain-el-Khair staggered, his eyes bulging from his head.

“Allah save me!” he gasped. “He is not harmed!”

“Not in the least,” said the lad, easily. “You might fire a hundred
bullets at me, and not one of them would do any harm.”

“You must be a sorcerer.”

“I am the greatest sorcerer alive. I cannot be slain, but I have power
to slay by touch.”

That was too much for the sheik to believe, and he plainly expressed his
unbelief.

Immediately Frank stepped forward and grasped both of Ain-el-Khair’s
hands. A yell of fear and pain came from the lips of the old Arab, who
began to squirm and dance in a most amazing manner, trying to tear his
hands away. After a moment of this, Frank released him, stepping back.

The robber chief stared at the boy, with fear showing plainly in his
bulging eyes. This Christian was truly a great sorcerer.

“Are you satisfied?” demanded Frank; “or would you see more?”

Ain-el-Khair did not speak.

“Look!” cried the boy. “Behold my protectors. Had I willed it thus a
hundred of them would have planted their poison fangs in your flesh when
I touched your hands.”

Out of the boy’s sleeves, his pockets, and various parts of his clothing
hissing serpents writhed and twisted. They twined along his arms,
twisted about his legs and his neck, popped into view, and vanished. All
the while he was moving his hands up and down and around, seeming to
pick them off his body and cast them into the air, where they instantly
vanished. Of a sudden he slapped his hands, and every serpent
disappeared.

“Are you satisfied?” Frank again demanded.

“I am satisfied,” confessed the sheik. “You are a great sorcerer. What
wouldst thou have me do?”

A sudden thought flashed through the boy’s brain.

“Take me to Ben Ahmet,” he answered. “It is he whom I seek.”

“Ben Ahmet!” cried Ain-el-Khair. “A thousand curses on him! He has led
the sultan to place a price on my head. I have heard that he is in
Tangier, and that is why I am here. I hope to meet him face to face when
he attempts to return to Fez.”

“He is already on his way. He left Tangier this morning, and, with his
fighting men, he is somewhere on the desert. We have followed to
overtake him. We have little money with us, but if you can aid us
against Ben Ahmet, I will promise you a goodly sum. What is your
answer?”

“We will sit down together and talk it over. Perhaps it can be done.”

So they sat upon the ground, Ain-el-Khair taking care to keep at a
distance from the boy whom he now feared and respected.

Frank had played a desperate game, and it looked as if he had won. If
Ain-el-Khair had fired at the boy’s head the game would have ended
suddenly in a tragedy, but the old sheik discharged the pistol at
Frank’s breast, and, although the bullet pierced the outer clothing, no
harm was done.

From the traveling magician of whom he had purchased the cabinet the boy
had obtained a bullet-proof shirt. This he had donned before
accompanying Azza in response to the appeal supposed to come from Igela,
which may account, in a measure, for his unusual recklessness.

The small electric battery which came with the magician’s cabinet was
very powerful, and was supplied with some fine wires that ran down
Frank’s sleeves to his hands. Before going out to meet the robber sheik
Frank had taken care to see that the battery was in working order, and
he had given the old rascal a severe shock when he grasped his hand.

The serpent trick was one of the illusions he had learned from the
magician, and it had proved very valuable in working on the
superstitious fears of Ain-el-Khair. Even after they had seated
themselves face to face upon the ground, the sheik was constantly
watching for the swaying head of a snake to appear somewhere about the
boy’s person. The old robber was sure a hundred serpents must be
concealed in Frank’s clothes.

The astonishment of Professor Scotch can be much better imagined than
described. To him it had seemed that Frank was crazy when he advanced to
meet the old chief, and what followed that meeting filled him with
unspeakable amazement. He could not understand why Frank did not fall
when the sheik fired point-blank at him, nor could he imagine why
Ain-el-Khair danced and yelled when Frank grasped his hands.

By the time the serpents began to appear and disappear about the boy’s
person the professor realized that Frank was attempting to overawe the
Arab by a display of legerdemain.

“It is folly,” muttered the professor. “We shall be murdered just the
same.”

“Wal, I dunno abaout that,” drawled Ephraim Gallup. “By gum! I kainder
cal’late Frank knows what he’s doin’ of.”

The boy from Vermont was beginning to believe Frank could accomplish
almost anything he undertook, no matter how difficult it might be.

For nearly half an hour the boy and the old sheik sat face to face on
the ground, talking earnestly. The robber chief was seen to make excited
gestures, as if much aroused by something Frank had told him.

The sheik’s followers witnessed this interview with unbounded
astonishment. They could not understand what it meant.

Finally the old sheik and the boy arose, and Ain-el-Khair made a gesture
that caused his fighting men to leap upon their horses and come tearing
down at the two about whom they gathered, paying not the slightest
attention to the professor and Ephraim.

The chief made a brief speech in Arabic, and his words were greeted with
loud yells from his followers.

Then the band parted, and Frank walked back to his anxious friends.

“For Heaven’s sake! what does all this mean?” fluttered the agitated
professor. “Explain it at once.”

“It means that I have made a compact with Ain-el-Khair,” declared Frank,
smiling triumphantly. “He hates Ben Ahmet and Ali Mustaf most heartily,
and he is looking for them now.”

“What kind of a compact have you made?”

“I have agreed to give him a garment that will make him bullet-proof if
he will aid us in rescuing Igela from Ben Ahmet. He says he will do so,
and will guard us to within a short distance of the wall of Tangier.”

“But how can you give him a garment that will make him bullet-proof?”

“By giving him the shirt I have on. You must stand between me and the
Arabs while I remove it. Bring two of the horses on the same side.”

This was done, and Frank hastily and deftly removed the shirt, while
Ain-el-Khair supposed the young sorcerer was manufacturing the garment
by some mysterious process.

“I hope he will be able to get it on,” said the boy anxiously.

A great shout went up from the Arabs as Frank advanced toward them, with
the garment in his hand. The sheik met the boy and received the shirt,
examining it curiously. He asked many questions about it, and Frank
assured him that no bullet could pierce it.

Then Ain-el-Khair made one of his followers don the shirt, after which
the fellow was forced to stand up while the old sheik fired a shot at
him at a distance not more than ten feet.

The wearer of the shirt staggered a bit, but remained unharmed by the
bullet.

When Ain-el-Khair saw this he turned to Frank and made a most profound
salaam, saying:

“You have kept your word, Christian sorcerer, and now you shall see that
Ain-el-Khair can keep his.”

Then he lost no time in donning the shirt, which, fortunately, was large
enough, although it was a “tight fit.”

The caravan of camels had been captured by the sheik, and he was holding
them for tribute; but he quickly decided not to bother with them longer,
but to ride at once with horses in search of Ben Ahmet.

In a short time the desert robbers were on the move, and Frank rode at
the side of Ain-el-Khair, with Ephraim and the professor close behind.

It was a queer adventure, and Frank was inclined to wonder if he would
not awaken and discover that it was a dream.

Night came on the desert, and the caravan had not been sighted. Still
Ain-el-Khair pressed on, and he was finally rewarded by seeing the gleam
of a camp-fire.

Toward the light they rode. When they had come near enough for him to
tell, the old sheik declared a caravan had halted there for the night.

“We will attack it,” he said, “and I pray Allah we may find my enemy
there.”

Straight toward the caravan they rode, and like a whirlwind the desert
robbers dashed down upon it. The fighting men of the caravan fired a few
shots, but, discovering they were greatly outnumbered, quickly ceased,
throwing down their muskets and crying to be spared.

Ain-el-Khair looked for Ben Ahmet—and found him! The old sheik had
joined that caravan, and Ali Mustaf was at his side. They stood before
one of the small tents.

“Praise Allah,” cried the robber sheik, exultantly, speaking in Arabic.
“I have found you, Ben Ahmet! You are the one who caused the Sultan to
put a price on my head, but you shall not live to see me destroyed. I
have come to kill you.”

“But I will kill you first!” shouted the sheik, as he lifted a pistol
and fired straight at the breast of the robber chief.

Ain-el-Khair felt the bullet strike against his wonderful shirt, but he
was not harmed by it, and, a moment later, he shot Ben Ahmet through the
head.

Seeing this, Ali Mustaf uttered a yell of terror and fled in the
darkness.

In a moment Frank leaped from his horse and tore open the front of the
tent.

“Igela!” he called; “are you here?”

With a cry of joy she sprang into his arms!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER IX.

ON TO FRANCE.

It was morning when four exhausted, dust-covered persons rode into
Tangier and hastened to the house of the United States Consul. They were
Professor Scotch, Ephraim Gallup, Frank Merriwell and Igela.

Ain-el-Khair had kept his word in every particular. He had escorted them
almost to the very gate of the city.

“We must get out of Morocco before the truth is known concerning the
attack on that caravan,” said Frank. “We shall be branded as robbers,
and a price will be placed on our heads.”

“Which is a very pleasant thing to contemplate!” said the professor.

At the house of the United States Consul a surprise awaited them. Mr.
Adams listened to their story, and then said:

“There seems to be a case of mistaken identity mixed up in this affair.
Last night a young man who has just crossed the desert from Fez, after
escaping from the castle of Bab-el-Maroc, came to me for protection and
aid. He has told me his story, which, together with what I have heard
from Mr. Merriwell, has thrown some light on a very singular matter.”

He opened a door and called to a person in an adjoining room. A moment
later a rather thin and pale youth entered the parlor.

“Permit me to introduce you to Mr. Frank Parker, gentlemen,” said the
consul. “Mr. Parker is from London. Mr. Parker—Mr. Merriwell, Professor
Scotch, Mr. Gallup, all from the United States. And this is——”

He was interrupted by a cry from Igela, who had been standing and
staring at Frank Parker as if turned to stone. Her eyes passed from
Parker’s face to that of Frank Merriwell; from one to the other she
looked a score of times, and then she ran into Parker’s arms.

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Scotch—“very remarkable! Why, Frank, this Parker
looks enough like you to be your brother—your twin brother. It is an
astonishing resemblance.”

“That is true,” smiled Frank; “and I fancy I have been taken for Mr.
Parker by more than one person. Igela, Ben Ahmet and Ali Mustaf all
believed that I was Parker. Ben Ahmet believed it, even though he had
left Parker confined in the castle of Bab-el-Maroc, hundreds of miles
away. Igela believed I had escaped from that castle and come here to
Tangier, which explains some things she said to me. The whole matter is
clearing up.”

It was clearing up, but, somehow, Frank felt as if he had lost something
of wonderful value. He saw Igela in the arms of his counterpart and then
he turned away.

Mr. Adams hastily and briefly explained how Igela’s father, having lost
the wife he loved, and being very fond of his daughter, whom he regarded
as a mere child, had carried her with him on one of his business
expeditions to London. There she had met Frank Parker and had fallen in
love with him. From that moment it was the girl’s aim and ambition to
perfect herself in the English language, which she studied persistently,
speaking it with her black servant, who had once been in England, and
knew the language. This explained how it came about that the Pearl of
Tangier could speak such perfect English.

Igela returned to Morocco with her father, but she did not forget Frank
Parker, who had promised to come for her some day and take her away with
him. Her father died, and she fell into the hands of her uncle. Then she
wrote an appeal to Parker, telling him he must come soon, or she would
be forced to marry.

Parker had traveled in France and Spain by himself; but he dared not
tell his folks that he was going to Morocco and why he was going. He
obtained consent to visit Paris, and, without delay, he hastened to
Morocco, crossed the desert to Fez, saw Igela, tried to carry her off,
was captured and confined in a dungeon, from which he was never to be
released.

For an English youth he was a wonder. He found an opportunity to attack
and slay the keeper who had brought him food, and he escaped in the
man’s clothes. By rare fortune he had been able to get across the desert
to Tangier.

When they had heard this story from the lips of Mr. Adams, Frank told
how Igela had been rescued, and that it was likely the entire party
would be branded as robbers with very little delay.

“You must all get out of the country immediately,” said Mr. Adams. “I
know a very wealthy gentleman who is lying off Tangier in his steam
yacht, in which he contemplates a cruise up the Mediterranean. You must
get aboard that yacht without delay, and he must take you all away. If
the girl goes she must be taken through Tangier as a boy—she must be
disguised.”

Arrangements for the attempt were quickly made, and the party succeeded
in getting on board the yacht, which carried them from Tangier to
Marseilles, in France.

By that time Frank Parker had related his story in detail a score of
times, and all confessed it a most wonderful and remarkable adventure.

Igela had discarded her veil in the house of the United States Consul,
and she declared she would never wear it again. She was very pretty.

“I am going to London to become a Christian,” she said, laughing.

“You are going to London to become——”

Parker whispered the final words in her ear, and she laughed again, her
dark eyes glowing, her cheeks warm with color.

In Paris the party separated, for Parker and the girl hastened onward
toward London.

“And now to see the sights of Paris,” said Frank. “No more Arabs for
me.”

“Nor me, by gosh,” replied Ephraim.

Accommodations were procured at a leading hotel, and after a few days of
much-needed rest all hands set out to “do” Paris in earnest.

All would have gone well, but Professor Scotch had suddenly taken it
into his head to visit the tomb of a very great personage buried in that
vicinity.

And he wanted to take Frank with him, so that the youth got little
chance to go elsewhere, excepting on the sly.

At last, at the end of two weeks, Frank began to feel bored.

“I didn’t come to Paris to see tombs,” he declared, almost fiercely.
“Think of coming to Paris, the gayest city in the world, to visit tombs!
Besides that, I have seen the tomb of Napoleon already, and that is
quite enough.”

“But——” objected the professor.

“It’s no use,” cried the boy. “I won’t go!”

“An’ when he says he won’t, yeou kin bet yeour boots he won’t,” drawled
Ephraim Gallup, who was lounging in an easy-chair, with his long legs
piled on top of a small table. “I know him.”

“I never saw such a boy!” stormed the professor, in his big, hoarse
voice. “What is the use to travel in order to broaden one’s knowledge of
the world unless one sees everything he can? If your uncle had lived——”

“I’d still be in the military school at Fardale. There’s no question
about that.”

“But think of the things you have not seen in Paris!”

“Think of the things I have seen! Thirteen tombs! Oh, say! I’ve had a
great time seeing things put down in the guidebooks, but now I’d like to
see something the guidebooks do not mention.”

Professor Scotch held up both hands, a look of horror on his face.

“Dear! dear!” he gasped. “I fear you are becoming depraved. It is
dreadful!”

“Can’t help it,” confessed Frank, with a sigh. “It’s in the air. One
catches it in Paris. If it were not for you, professor, I believe I
would visit the Moulin Rouge to-night.”

“What is the Moulin Rouge? My, my! But it must be a terrible place!”

“It is the most famous dance hall in all Paris.”

“Dreadful, dreadful! See how you would go astray if it were not for my
protecting care. Er—ah—what do they do at this terrible Moulin Rouge?”

“They dance, professor. The artists’ models go there, and they kick off
your hat and chuck you under the chin and do other things. They are said
to be very handsome, if one does not mind powder and paint. All the
Americans go to the Moulin Rouge. They wouldn’t think of going to such a
place at home, but in Paris it is different and all right.”

“Scandalous! I am ashamed of my countrymen. And how much does it cost to
visit this dreadful place?”

“Not much, professor—a little something for beer, or wine, whichever you
may choose to drink.”

“Ha! hum! Hum! ha! But you know I never drink beer, and I take wine only
when I feel that the condition of my system makes me require a tonic.”

“Well, what do you say, professor—do we visit the Moulin Rouge?”

“Goodness, no! We cannot take such chances; but—er—ah!—I think it would
be a good plan for me to—er—just drop around there and see if it is
a—ah!—suitable place for you boys to visit. Ahem!”

It was with no little difficulty the boys kept their faces straight, for
they felt a strong inclination to burst into laughter. Indeed, Frank
gave Ephraim such a comical wink that the boy from Vermont fairly
doubled up in his effort to hold in, and then gave an explosive snort.

“What’s that?” roared the professor, jumping and whirling about. “Are
you laughing at me, sir?”

“I ain’t larfin’,” declared Ephraim.

“Then what are you doing, sir?”

“I’m cryin’.”

“Crying?”

“Yep.”

“Why are you crying?”

“Because yeou won’t take us with ye to this air Moulin Rouge. Boo-hoo!”

“There, there, there! That will do! I am ashamed of you! When I have
satisfied myself that it is a suitable place, I will take you there—not
before. When—ah!—at what time does this place open?”

“It will open early to-night, professor,” said Frank, “for this is the
night after the Grand Prix, and the French horses all beat the English
in the races to-day. Oh, those races, professor! And you would not let
us take them in!”

“Horse racing is very immoral—very. There can be no question about that.
I am not certain the Moulin Rouge is immoral, and so I am going to
investigate.”

He looked at his watch, eyed the boys a moment, and then added.

“I think I will not dine at the hotel to-night. Needn’t expect me. If
the Moulin Rouge is all right, I may be back for you. You are tired of
sight-seeing, so it will do you good to stay in the hotel and rest.
Don’t worry if I am not back till quite late. Be good, boys.”

Then the professor found his high hat and cane and walked sedately out
of the room.

The moment the door was closed Ephraim leaped up and gave a kick of
delight that came near bringing down the chandelier, while Frank lay
back in his chair and laughed heartily but silently.

“There,” said Merriwell, “I told you I’d find a way to shake him
to-night. It’s a dreadful bore to follow him around and watch him
running here and there over the city, guidebook in hand, trying to find
another tomb that is worth looking at. Churches and palaces and public
buildings in such quantities as we have stacked up against lately are
enough to give a fellow that tired feeling. Besides that, to-night is
the night of nights in Paris. We didn’t get to the races, but we will go
out and watch the Parisians make merry, and we will not have the
professor to encumber us.”

“I’ll be hung ef yeou didn’t work it slick, Frank,” cried Ephraim,
admiringly. “I didn’t think we could git rid uv him nohaow.”

“But we did, and we had better leave the hotel very soon, for fear he
may change his mind and come back.”

So it happened that the boys left the hotel shortly after the professor
went out. Later they were seated at the corner table of the Café de la
Paix, which juts the farthest out into the Avenue de l’Opera and the
Boulevard Capucines.

This particular table afforded them the finest boulevard view to be
obtained in Paris, and they were fortunate in obtaining it. It was
located exactly under the “de la” of the “Café de la Paix,” which was
painted in red letters on the awning over their heads.

About this table flowed the tide of pedestrians from the avenue and the
boulevard, and from their admirable position the boys could watch the
square in front of the opera house, the boulevard and the three great
streets running into it from the river.

Of course the boys were obliged to order drinks that they might sit
there at that table, but the liquid remained untouched, while they
watched the throngs that came and went like great waves of life.

“There,” said Frank, with a sigh of relief. “If we remain here an hour
or so, we’ll see everybody worth seeing in Paris.”

Near them was a crowd of New Yorkers, young men and women, drinking wine
and making merry in the open air after a fashion that would have filled
them with horror had they seen a similar party doing such a thing at the
corner of Broadway and Fifth Avenue.

It was near six in the afternoon, one of the most propitious times for
seeing the boulevards.

“These air French youngsters make me sick,” drawled Ephraim, as he
watched some boys with broad velvet collars and stocks go by. “What
makes ’em dress that air way?”

“They think it is English, you know,” smiled Frank.

“Wal, the only place I’ve been where folks don’t seem to be tryin’ to do
something English is in Africy, among the niggers. In New York they was
tryin’ to be English, an’ it was the same in Valparaiso and Buenos
Ayres. Naow they seem to have it here in Paris. By gum! I am a Yankee
from the crown uv my feet to the sole uv my head, an’ I don’t make no
monkey uv myself tryin’ to act like the English an’ dress like um.”

“Sir, awe you aware, sir, that there may be English gentlemen present
who may take—aw—exceptions to your langwage? Such remarks awe of an
insulting ordah, don’t yer ’now. You may-aw—get youahself into a
blooming bit of trouble by such langwage.”

The individual who said this was young in years, with a light-draft
mustache, an eyeglass and the dress of an English tourist. He paused
near the table and surveyed the boys with an aggravating stare. He was a
rather well-built young fellow, but there was a decidedly vapid
expression on his face.

The moment Frank saw this person he decided it was not their first
meeting. The face was familiar.

There was an unoccupied chair at the table, and, with insolent coolness,
the stranger appropriated it.

“Wal, gol dern my eyes!” spluttered Ephraim. “Fer a crust that beoats
anything I ever struck!”

“Aw!” drawled the stranger, “I wish to give you some advice, don’t yer
’now.”

“Wal, jest yeou save it for them that wants it, mister.”

“Verwy rude, cwecher,” said the unknown, screwing the single-barreled
eyeglass into his eye and surveying Ephraim. “I wondah why they don’t
keep such things in America. By Jawve! it is a genuwine cuwieosity.”

“Darn my punkins!” exploded the boy from Vermont. “Yeou’re a freak,
that’s what yeou be!”

“Sir, this may lead to—a—aw—challenge.”

“Challenge be hanged!” came hotly from the aroused Yankee boy. “Ef
yeou’re an Englishman, I kin lick the stuffin’ aout uv yeou.”

“Sir, one Englishman is good faw three nawsty Americans.”

“Wal, I be derned ef it has proved that way in the past! The Yankees
licked yeou in the fust place with a handful uv ragged, barefooted,
half-starved fellers, an’ then, when yeou wasn’t satisfied an’ tried to
play the bully on the high seas, the Yankees gave ye another good
wallopin’. An ef yeou want it, yeou kin have some more uv the same
medicine, only we’ll lick yer a darned sight wus the next time. We might
jest ez well have it aout over Venezuela as anything else, but thutter!
We’ll give ye Yankee Doodle and the Monroe Doctrine right aout uv the
muzzles uv aour guns, and, by——”

Frank placed a restraining hand on his companion’s arm.

“Be quiet, Ephraim,” he said. “Sir,” turning to the stranger, “we have
not the advantage of knowing you, and still I——”

“My name is Awthur Lumley, of London. I have a cawd, and——”

“Never mind your card,” smiled Frank. “I know you now, and I compliment
you on your acting. You are Harvey Wynne, at one time a reporter on a
New York newspaper.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER X.

“A MORT, ESPION!”

“’Sh!”

With a gesture of alarm and a quick look around, the young man grasped
Frank’s arm.

“Be careful!” he warned, speaking in a low tone, the vapid expression
having vanished from his face. “I recognized you, and I thought I would
try my disguise on you. I do not wish to be known here.”

Frank was surprised, but repressed any expression of his feelings.

“I knew, the moment I set eyes on you, that I had seen you before,” he
said, “and your get-up is so thoroughly English that I did not know but
you were an Englishman, or an Anglo-maniac.”

“Then you think my make-up good?” asked the young man, rather anxiously.

“Excellent.”

“And my English accent?”

“Great.”

“I am glad to hear it. But you have sharp eyes. You are a remarkable
boy, and I knew it when I interviewed you after your wonderful escape
from being cast from the cupola of the _World_ building by an enemy who
was trying to kill you. How long have you been in Paris?”

“Two weeks.”

“Took in London on your way, I suppose?”

“I have not yet seen London, but shall visit it later. I have been
traveling in South America and Africa.”

The young man lifted his eyebrows and regarded Frank with fresh
interest.

“That’s queer. You seem to be rather original in the thing you do. Don’t
think I quite understand you.”

“I be gol derned ef I understand anything uv this air business!” said
Ephraim, in bewilderment. “I’m twisted, by thutter!”

“Permit me to introduce Mr. Harvey Wynne, a newspaper reporter. Mr.
Wynne, Mr. Gallup, of Vermont, a Yankee boy to the backbone, and a
traveling companion of mine.”

Ephraim shook hands with Wynne, but still seemed dazed.

“And you ain’t no Englishman, arter all?” he asked.

“Not much,” smiled Wynne, “although I am passing as such here, and I
wish to be known as Arthur Lumley, of London. Here is a card with my
correct name and the paper I am employed upon.”

He gave each of the boys a card, on which was engraved “Harvey Wynne,
Special Correspondent, New York.” Frank placed the card in his pocket.

“You must have an object in wishing to be known by a name other than
your own,” said Merriwell.

“I have.”

Wynne looked around. The throngs were weaving along the broad walks, and
no one seemed to pay the least attention to the two boys and the young
man at the corner table in front of the Café de la Paix. The Americans
at the table near at hand were talking and laughing loudly. The
Frenchmen at the other tables were sipping their drinks, smoking their
cigars, and watching the people who were passing. They talked animatedly
among themselves, with expressive gestures and shrugs, but did not lift
their voices harshly after the manner of the wine-flushed Americans.

All the crowd seemed filled with a feeling of jollity. Men and women
saluted each other gayly. It was the night after the Grand Prix, and
everybody wished to be considered a winner at the races. The pompous
gentlemen of the boulevards who cut their white goatees as do military
men of the Second Empire, hoping that the ruddiness of their cheeks,
which is due to excessive wine-drinking, will be attributed to the suns
of Tunis or Algiers, were much less pompous than usual. Old men wore a
boyish air, and boys were more boyish than their wont.

Seeing no one was observing them, Wynne said, speaking in a low tone:

“I have been sent here by my paper on a rather delicate mission.”

Although Frank’s curiosity was aroused, he asked no questions, simply
raising his eyebrows.

“I think I can trust you,” said the young correspondent. “I am not in
the habit of talking much about my business, but I have a premonition
that I am going to get into trouble, and I feel a strong desire to
confide in some one.”

“Anything you tell us in confidence will be regarded as sacred, Mr.
Wynne,” declared Frank.

“That’s right, b’gosh!” vigorously nodded Ephraim.

“I believe so, and I am going to tell you my mission here. I have been
sent to investigate these recent bomb-throwing outrages, and to discover
the strength, secrets, and members of the secret society of anarchists
known to have their headquarters in this city. A somewhat delicate
mission, as you will admit.”

“Decidedly so.”

“But what makes it all the more delicate is the fact that my mission
here is known to the very men I have been sent to watch, and I have
reasons to believe they have spotted me for assassination.”

“Well, that certainly is a most interesting state of affairs. You will
have to get out of France.”

“Not till I have carried out the work for which I was sent here,” came
resolutely from Wynne’s lips. “They may kill me, but they cannot
frighten me away.”

“Gol derned ef that ain’t the kind uv stuff!” exclaimed Ephraim, with
satisfaction. “That air is Yankee Doodle to the backbone! By thunder, I
ruther like yeour style, Mister Wynne!”

Wynne smiled a bit, saying:

“Easy with that name, for you cannot tell what ears are listening. Call
me Lumley, please.”

“All right, Mr. Lumley; I’ll call ye anything that suits yeou.”

“Now,” said the young newspaper man, “I will explain just why I decided
to make a confidant of you lads. You see, I have——”

A woman brushed past the table, and a bit of paper fluttered from her
hand, falling before the boys. On the paper something was written in
red. Frank caught it up and read:

“_A mort, espion!_” (To death, spy.)

“Who threw it?” palpitated Wynne, excitedly.

“That woman going there!” Frank quickly answered. “See, the one glancing
over her shoulder. She wears a veil. No, by Jove!—it is a mask!”

“Then I’m after her,” breathed the young newspaper correspondent. “Will
see you later—perhaps.”

Away he went in pursuit of the strange woman, and both were quickly
swallowed up by the moving throng.

For some moments after Wynne’s departure both boys sat still, looking
toward the spot where he was last seen. Ephraim was the first to speak:

“Gol dern my hide!” he muttered. “We’ve faound something interestin’
this evenin’, an’ that’s sure es apples make cider.”

“That’s what we have,” nodded Frank, with an expression of satisfaction,
not unmingled with dismay. “But we did not find out where the fellow is
stopping, and he did not ask us where we put up. He may not be able to
find us again, if he should want to, and we may look for him in vain.”

“That’s so.”

“He may be hurrying to his death at this minute.”

“Did yeou notice that air paper dropped right daown in front uv yeou?”

“Yes, it fluttered to my side of the table in falling.”

“Darned ef it didn’t look to me es if it was meant fer yeou all the
time.”

“That is not possible. That masked woman must be connected with the
anarchists, and there is no reason in the world why I should be regarded
as a spy.”

“Unless it was because yeou was talkin’ with Wynne. The paper may have
been meant ez a warnin’ fer ye, so yeou wouldn’t have anything to do
with him.”

“I do not think it was meant for me at all. But come, we have remained
here long enough. It is getting dark, and I am growing hungry.”

“Be yeou going back to the hotel?”

“I think not. We will dine out doors to-night. I have heard it is the
fashion after Grand Prix. We will go to the Champs Elysées, and visit
the shows after we eat. Come on.”

The Champs Elysées was blazing with light and alive with merry people,
who were dining beneath the trees, which were all aglow with Chinese
lanterns.

Women were sitting bareheaded everywhere, chatting, laughing, eating,
drinking and chaffing with their male companions. Then men were
immaculate in evening dress, dazzling white shirts and shiny silk hats.

Already it seemed that every table was taken, for it was Grand Prix
night, and all Paris was dining outdoors. From the Place de la Concorde
up to the Avenue Matignon stretched the white tables with their little
lamps, and the bottles of red wine flickering in the light.

It was like fairyland. The fountains were splashing and tinkling, bands
of music were heard everywhere, and the voices of singers came from the
café chantants, sounding shrilly above the chorus of rattling china.
Hundreds of people were laughing and talking, and on the avenue the cabs
rumbled by, their lamps approaching and disappearing like thousands of
flickering fireflies.

From one restaurant to another the boys wandered, finding all the tables
filled, much to their dismay.

“Who would have thought it could be like this so early in the evening!”
said Frank, disconsolately. “There are hundreds waiting for tables
already.”

“An’ I’m hongry enough to eat a stew made uv old boot-tops,” declared
the boy from Vermont. “Seein’ all these folks stowin’ the good fodder
away makes me hongrier. I’ve gotter eat purty soon, ur I’ll lay right
daown an’ cough up the ghost, Frank.”

“We’ll try the Ambassadeurs,” said Frank. “It’s the best place I know
of, and I don’t suppose there is one chance in a thousand of getting a
table there; but it will do no harm to try.”

So to the Ambassadeurs they went, and, by a rare piece of fortune, they
chanced to obtain a table.

“Gol derned ef this ain’t slick,” chuckled the Yankee lad, as he settled
down in a satisfied way. “Here we kin eat, and we’ll see a show at the
same time.”

“Well, I don’t know as we’ll see much at this distance from the stage,”
said Frank; “but we can hear the music of the songs, without being
bothered to make out the words. This beats the roof gardens of New York,
for it is on the ground, and there’s gravel under foot and trees over
our heads.”

It was indeed a strange and inviting place to dine. Between them and the
mirror-backed stage were rows of boxes on either side. They were at the
extreme rear, where there was a wide balcony. The whole place glowed
with light, for there were gas jets everywhere. The stage was loaded
with flowers, and the entertainment seemed to please, for the audience
was applauding it boisterously. Indeed, the audience was so good-natured
that it seemed equally pleased with trained dogs and monkeys at one
minute, or a singer at the next.

During his stay in Paris, Frank had noticed a peculiarity of the French
amusement seekers—they seemed determined to be pleased. At the café
chantants, an artist was sure of tumultuous applause; but a buffoon and
horseplay awakened equal enthusiasm.

After a time Frank found a waiter at his elbow, and gave his order. The
order was filled with surprising quickness, and the boys began to enjoy
themselves, chatting, listening to bits of conversation, or harkening to
the distant singing.

In this manner the time passed swiftly. They discussed their recent
meeting with Harvey Wynne, and wondered if they would see him again.
They speculated on what Professor Scotch was doing just then, and if he
had found the Moulin Rouge suitable for them to visit.

Finally, the last course was served, and they were feeling more than
satisfied with themselves and everything else. Those who had finished
nearby had lighted cigars or cigarettes, and both boys felt a strong
temptation to follow the example.

“If it wasn’t for one thing, I think I would smoke,” said Frank.

“What is that air one thing?” asked Ephraim, curiously.

“I hope to enter college when I return home, and I do not wish to get in
the habit of smoking, for they say it is not easy to break off at
college, and I mean to take part in athletics. Smoking injures a
fellow’s wind.”

“Then don’t yeou smoke, Frank, and yeou’ll make ’em hustle when yeou git
inter college. Yeou was hot stuff at Fardale, and yeou’ll be hotter now.
They’ll have to hustle to keep within hailin’ distance uv yeou.”

Frank smiled.

“I take a great interest in athletics and sports of all kinds,” he said,
“and I could not go to college without making a try for a chance on the
teams.”

“Yeou’ll git there. Why, yeou was a bird at baseball—could pitch ur
ketch, ur play any other old place. And when it came to
football—jeewizh! but yeou was a howler!”

At this moment a most startling thing occurred. Down on the table
between them dropped a spluttering, smoking something. It sent out a
spray of sparks, and it filled every one near with the utmost terror.

“_Le bombe! le bombe!_” was the wild cry that went up, and there was a
mad scamper to get out of the way.

Men shouted hoarsely and women shrieked. Everything was cast into uproar
and confusion in the twinkling of an eye.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XI.

PLEASURE AND PERIL.

Frank Merriwell did not lose his presence of mind. Like a flash, he
caught up the thing, which was a short piece of gas pipe, and pinched
off the burning fuse with his thumb and finger, burning his hand as he
did so.

Placing the bomb carefully on the table, he leaped up and plunged after
the crowd, having caught sight of the person who dropped the thing on
the cloth before him.

It was the woman who wore the mask!

Ephraim was dazed for some minutes, and then he tried to follow his
friend, but found Frank had disappeared.

Frank did not stop until he was outside of the Ambassadeurs’ and some
distance away. Then he realized that Ephraim was not with him, and he
looked around.

“I can’t bother with him now,” he muttered. “He will find his way back
to the hotel. That woman is somewhere just ahead.”

He saw a woman that seemed to look like the unknown, but when he reached
her side, he found that her face was not masked, and the look she gave
him made him turn quickly away.

Still he was not satisfied. That might be the woman, it might be she had
disposed of the mask. So he followed her to the Jardin de Paris, and
there he lost her in the mad mob that was making merry about the
band-stand.

The place was thronged with people who were shouting and laughing and
racing about the asphalt pavement. Handsome women, gorgeously gowned and
bedecked with diamonds, had joined hands with swells in evening dress
and they were sweeping through the crowd, yelling boisterously. The
French swells had cut down the Chinese lanterns with their sticks,
removed the dripping candles, and stuck them on the tops of their silk
hats with the burning tallow, thus making living torches of themselves.

Now, for the first time, Frank fully realized what was meant by the
expression, “Gay Paris.” Never before had he seen anything like this.
Past him raced a youth in evening dress, dripping with candle grease,
holding by the hand a beautiful girl in a dinner gown, with her silk and
velvet opera cloak slipping from her shoulders, both screaming with
laughter.

A band of roysterers, with joined hands, were spinning around a stately
dignitary, who could not escape from the circle. Another party was
storming the women who were running the shooting gallery. A girl in a
linen blouse and flat straw hat was dancing vis-a-vis with another girl
who wore diamonds in ropes, surrounded by admiring and applauding men.

“Great Scott!” gasped Frank, in a bewildered way. “What have I struck
here! This lays over anything I have yet seen in this rather lively
little town!”

The merrymaking spirit was catching. Frank forgot the strange woman of
the masked face, and he longed to join in the rushing, the shouting, the
waltzing and the singing. His warm boyish blood was tingling in his
veins.

Of a sudden the band struck into an air that was hailed with a howl of
recognition and delight from three thousand throats.

It was “The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.”

The musicians seemed to know they had hit something that would please
that crowd, and they were not mistaken. The three thousand who had
howled with joy as the first note struck into the song, marching and
strutting and yelling till the mad chorus could be heard as far as the
boulevards.

Frank felt that he had been repaid for visiting Paris. At last he had
seen the class of Parisians that he had heard about and read about, yet
had failed to discover up to this night. He realized that they appeared
only at unusual intervals, but now he felt certain they lived up to
their reputation when they did appear.

And Frank found himself singing with the rest. He had been seized by the
delirium of revelry, and he entirely forgot himself. It seemed that the
occasion had been made for his especial delight, and he threw himself
into the spirit of the moment.

When the high note of the chorus was reached the three thousand men and
women stood on their tiptoes, and the musicians leaped upon their
chairs, holding their instruments as high above their heads as they
could without losing control of the note.

When the piece was ended Frank was ready for anything. He would have
plunged into the whirling vortex of humanity, but a voice in his ear
arrested him. That voice hissed:

“_A mort, espion!_”

He whirled like a panther, and in a twinkling had caught the speaker’s
wrist.

It was the masked unknown!

Frank was not a little surprised by his success in grasping her. She
made a sharp effort to break away, failed, and then panted:

“Let go!”

The words were spoken in French, but Frank could understand and speak
French very well.

“Not so fast,” he returned, quickly. “I have had considerable trouble
with you. Will you be kind enough to grant me a few moments?”

He spoke smoothly, suavely, politely.

“Let go!” she panted again, her free hand disappearing in the folds of
her dress. “Release me, sir!”

“In a moment. I beg you to grant me one favor—remove that mask.”

For the third time she hissed:

“Let go!”

“Grant me the favor I ask—a look at your face.”

“You will not let go? Then you shall have this!”

Her hand came out from the folds of her dress, it swept through the air,
something bright glinted in the gaslight.

She had struck straight at Frank Merriwell’s heart with a dagger!

But the boy was watching her with the eyes of a hawk, and he had taken
note of the movement when that hand disappeared from view. He saw it
flash forth with the knife, and he caught and held it, although the
force of the stroke was so great that the point of the dagger cut his
coat slightly.

“I beg a thousand pardons for this seeming rudeness,” he said, still
with the utmost politeness, and without lifting his voice. “It is
unavoidable, you know.”

The masked unknown felt that she was helpless in his hands.

“If you do not let go, I shall scream, and I will swear you have
insulted me,” she swiftly said.

“What, then?”

“You will see how swiftly this crowd will resent an insult to a lady. If
you would escape harm, let me go.”

“I will take my chances. This is Grand Prix night, and you will make
yourself ridiculous if you accuse me of insulting you. Ladies who are
abroad to-night without escorts are not in a position to be too
particular.”

“I am not alone.”

“No?”

“I have friends near at hand.”

“They should be with you.”

“If I cry out, they will come.”

“And then—what?”

“I failed to stab you in the breast; they will strike at your back.”

“Brave friends! Why should they do so? What have I done to make myself
the enemy of you and your friends?”

“You know. Why do you ask?”

“But I do not know, and that is why I ask. Twice you have tried to kill
me to-night, and——”

“Only once.”

“How about the bomb at the Ambassadeurs’?”

“It was not a real bomb—it was harmless.”

“Harmless? And do you mean to say it was dropped before me for a joke?
Is that what you would have me believe?”

“No, no—there was no joke about it. It was the second warning. You
received the first in front of the Café de la Paix.”

“Then that was meant for me?”

“Yes.”

“But why? I do not understand it at all. What have I done that you
should warn me? And why did you warn me?”

“So you would leave Paris without delay. To save your life. If you
remain in this city forty-eight hours longer nothing can save you.”

“Well, that is very interesting! I had begun to think I should see Paris
without any adventure in particular, but I have changed my mind. Things
are coming with a rush. You claim to be very friendly toward me—to have
a desire to save my life; and yet you would have finished me just now if
I had not caught your hand. I do not think I quite understand you. If
you are so much my friend, pray remove that mask for a moment. I always
wish to know my friends, so I can salute them when we meet.”

The unknown was growing angry. She made a quick, panther-like struggle,
but Frank was a young athlete, wonderfully strong in his hands, and she
was helpless.

Nevertheless, that struggle attracted the attention of those near at
hand, and they saw there was something more than the usual rollicking
going on. They began to gather about the two with a rush.

And then Frank felt a heavy blow on the side of the head. It sent him
staggering. He heard some one cry out something about assaulting a lady,
and he knew the masked mystery had freed her wrists from his grasp.

At that moment it would not have surprised the boy if another attempt
had been made on his life. He was expecting it, and he whirled on his
feet like a cat.

The unknown female had disappeared into the throng.

“Slipped away again!” muttered Frank, in dismay. “And I know as little
about her now as I did the first time I saw her.”

Some of the crowd demanded to know just what had happened, and some
seemed to look on Frank as a ruffian who had attacked a lady.

Frank had no fancy to explain then and there, so he quickly moved away,
and escaped from the inquisitive throng.

But he found that the roystering had suddenly ceased to interest or
amuse him. He was seized with an intense desire to solve the mystery of
the masked unknown, and he wandered away from the merry throng into the
streets.

It was not difficult to find quiet streets, for the people had
congregated in the restaurants, the squares, the show-places and the
gardens.

Frank wondered if Ephraim had returned safely to the hotel, and if the
professor had found anything at the Moulin Rouge livelier than could be
seen at the Jardin de Paris.

Then he thought of Harvey Wynne. What had become of the fellow? He had
started in pursuit of the elusive woman in the mask. Had he overtaken
her? If so, what had befallen Wynne?

He would have given something to meet the dauntless newspaper
correspondent just then and compare notes with him. He fancied he could
tell Wynne a few things of interest.

And so, wondering not a little over what had happened, he finally came
to a place that he had once visited in company with a guide, who had
agreed to take him to see “the thieves of Montmartre.” He had been in
the guide’s care, and so none of the disreputable frequenters of the
place had molested him, although he had paid well for the privilege of
being taken there, going without Professor Scotch’s knowledge.

Frank remembered that he had seen some individuals in this place who
looked like anarchists of the fierce and unwashed sort, and a sudden
desire to visit the place once more took possession of him. He did not
stop to think it over, but, almost before he realized what he was doing,
he was rapping on the heavy door set in the dark wall.

Frank had noted the signal given by his guide, and he rapped in exactly
the same manner.

In a few seconds a panel in the door slid open, and a ray of light shot
into the boy’s face. Frank knew he was being inspected by Henri Bornier,
the keeper of the Red Flag, as the place was called.

That inspection seemed to satisfy Bornier, for he opened the door and
admitted the boy, although he asked:

“Why do you come alone? You should be with a guide. I know you. You were
here four days ago.”

“That’s right,” nodded Frank, “and I did not come with a guide to-night
because guides are not easy to find.”

Bornier muttered something, and Frank followed him into a room where
there were three long tables, at which a number of persons were sitting,
smoking, drinking, talking covertly, with sidelong glances, and
appearing suspicious of all around them.

The walls were decorated with fantastic bill posters, unframed
oil-paintings of a lurid order, beer mugs, death-masks, and so forth.
There was no bar.

Beyond this room there was yet another, which was reached by a narrow
door. The walls of this room were painted with scenes of celebrated
murders, executions on the guillotine, photographs of anarchists,
together with famous police officers. It was a ghastly room, lighted by
yellow lamps, which gave out an uncanny glow.

In this room men and women were, the men crafty and cunning in their
movements, the women bold and unwomanly. They were drinking, talking and
laughing, but their voices were unpleasant, and their laughter
mirthless.

Yet it was said that any one could visit this place in company with a
guide and be quite safe. He would be expected to pay liberally for
drinks, and to treat everybody. The guide would charge him an exorbitant
price for his services, and would collect the sum before the Red Flag
was left behind. If the sight-seeing individual objected, and made a
rumpus, he would be held till the price was collected by force; but,
even though he had much money about his person, no more than the sum
named would be taken. The rest would be returned to his pockets.

Henri Bornier was shrewd. He would not permit out and out robbery in his
place, knowing the police would make short work of him if he did. The
police did not mind if the guides charged exorbitant prices for their
services, and Bornier sold his wine for five times its worth; and they
laughed at the manner of forcibly collecting these charges.

Frank was obliged to pause for inspection in the first room. The
suspicious-eyed men looked him over. Bornier explained that he had been
there once before, and had proved himself a very good customer. He added
that the young American would be pleased to have everybody drink with
him.

So Frank paid for the drinks without a murmur, and then, in due time,
passed on into the next room, when he met with a surprise that nearly
took his breath.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XII.

THE SHADOW OF PERIL.

Harvey Wynne was there!

The moment Frank saw the young newspaper correspondent an exclamation of
recognition leaped to his lips, but he choked it back.

Wynne was in company with a professional guide, who was showing him the
bloody pictures, and explaining all about each one.

Frank realized that the eyes of almost every person in the room had been
turned toward the door as he entered. One of the women, who had been
singing, stopped and stared at him as if she longed to grasp him by the
throat.

“By Jawve!” Wynne was drawling, as he surveyed the gory picture of a
celebrated anarchist; “this is weally shocking, don’t yer ’now. Aw—er—it
actually makes me verwy ill.”

He turned away, saw Frank, looked at the boy in a blankly curious way,
but did not seem to recognize him at all.

Then Frank seemed to understand that both Wynne and he were being
watched in a most jealous manner by the eyes of the unpleasant gang in
that room.

Bornier called for Frank’s name, suavely begging pardon for having
forgotten it, and, when the boy had told him, proceeded to introduce
Merriwell to the assembled rascals.

“This,” he said, “is Peri Montparnasse, a celebrated pickpocket. He can
relieve you of your purse so gently that you could never know anything
about it till you came to need it and feel for it. In his line he is a
very great artist. This is François Lenoir, a most successful
housebreaker, a gentleman and a scholar. He is the poet of the Red Flag.
It would charm you so very much to hear him recite one of his most
soothing and delightful poems all about robbing and murdering. This is
Fabian Vaugirad, who bears the very great honor of having been arrested
one hundred and ninety-three times. And this is Emile Durant, who has
never been arrested, but—let me whisper it—is one of the most desperate
anarchists in all Paris. He is a scientist, a surgeon, a man of the most
wonderful attainments, and a leader of the anarchists.”

These final words were breathed in Frank’s ear, as if it were all true,
and Bornier dared not speak it aloud even there.

Frank was a trifle dazed. On his previous visit to the place, he had
been told by the proprietor that all the men he saw lounging about were
very desperate characters, but Bornier had not openly introduced them,
recounting the crimes for which each was celebrated as he did so. The
boy wondered if the proprietor of the place had held this in reserve
that he might have something of a sensational nature to interest his
guest on a second visit—wondered if this was Bornier’s custom.

But what caused the lad the greatest wonderment was concerning the truth
of Bornier’s words. If the man spoke the truth, how was it he dared so
boldly tell the crimes of his patrons, and how was it that none of them
showed alarm at being thus exposed?

Surely, if Bornier spoke the truth, these men should be hiding from the
police, and should not be gathered here in a place concerning which
every officer in Paris must be perfectly informed.

With these thoughts came a momentary belief that the proprietor of the
Red Flag was lying, and that these fellows were hired to sit there and
look fierce that they might be shown to visitors and described as great
criminals.

But Frank was a shrewd reader of character, and, looking over the faces
of the rascals introduced, he was forced to confess to himself that they
had the appearance of being able to commit all the crimes which Bornier
had laid at their doors. They were of a certainty a most scoundrelly
looking crowd.

These rascals bowed to the boy as they were introduced, but none of them
offered to shake his hand, much to Frank’s satisfaction.

And now Merriwell began to doubt the wisdom of coming here unattended by
a guide. He wondered if the rascals would not fancy they had a perfect
right to rob him under such circumstances.

That, however, was not what troubled him the most. In the eyes of the
women he had seen a threat, and in the eyes of more than one of the men
he read a blood-thirsty desire.

Having been introduced, Frank ordered drinks, which were brought. He
barely touched his lips to the contents of his glass, and then placed it
on a table.

When he lifted the glass it seemed that every eye in the room was on
him, and when he scarcely wet his lips with the liquid he fancied he
detected anxiety, and this seemed followed by disappointment as he
placed the glass upon the table.

“Monsieur does not drink,” growled Durant. “Is it an insult he would
mean to give M. Bornier?”

“By no means,” smiled Frank, as if he were quite at his ease. “I never
drink. I have done everything else here, as is the custom, and no one
can be offended because I decline to do what I have never done.”

Durant looked little satisfied, and was on the point of saying something
more when Bornier hastily cut in:

“The young American is quite right to decline to drink if it is not his
custom. As no offense is meant, none shall be taken.”

He bowed very low to the boy, who was very much relieved.

Durant scowled blackly, plainly in a very bad mood.

Bornier began to show the boy the pictures, explaining about each as
they passed. While this was in progress, Frank caught Wynne looking at
him fairly, and the young newspaper man placed a finger on his lips.

It was a signal for silence, and it gave Frank Merriwell a thrill, for
something about it seemed to plainly say, “Danger.”

Frank pretended to be greatly interested in the pictures, but he was
acutely alive to all that was taking place in the room.

One by one, the women were going out, and soon all had left. In a
corner, over his bottle of poor red wine, an unshaven, ragged fellow
began to sing a song. It was a doleful thing, and it made Frank’s blood
cold.

The singer seemed to fall off into a drunken doze before the song was
finished; but Lenoir, the poet, continued with the entertainment by
reciting some doggerel about the slow and horrid strangulation of a
police spy.

This did not make Frank feel any more at ease, but, from his manner, one
could not have surmised that he was in the least disturbed.

Wynne had taken a seat. He was sucking the head of his stick, staring
about him in a blank manner, and saying some witless thing now and then.

Lenoir finished his “poem,” and Vaugirad tried to start up a
conversation with Wynne. He asked the young newspaper man where he was
from, and Wynne said London. Then Vaugirad asked twenty more questions,
and Wynne lied deftly in answering each one.

But Frank saw something that was unseen to the young newspaper
correspondent.

Behind Wynne’s back sat Emile Durant, listening to every word, the
expression of a murderer on his evil face. His attitude and the baleful
glow in his eyes gave the boy a feeling of nameless horror.

And now it seemed to Frank that he had unwittingly walked into a deadly
trap. A feeling of oppression, a sense of deadly and terrible danger,
bore down on him.

Bornier appeared uneasy. Frank half believed the man was dreading
something he felt sure must happen.

Even the pictures of the noted anarchists on the walls seemed to glower
at the two young Americans, and it appeared that the bloodstained head
of the fellow beneath the guillotine was about to denounce them with its
open mouth.

The long, snaky fingers of Montparnasse, the pickpocket, were twisting
and curling over each other as his hands met on the table where they
rested. How easily they might snatch a purse or close about the throat
of a victim.

Lenoir was striding up and down the room like an actor, his head bowed
on his breast, his attitude seeming to indicate that he was deep in
meditation. It was plain that he sought to give the impression that he
was putting together another “poem.”

But Frank caught a hasty glance that was shot now and then from beneath
the poet’s heavy eyebrows, and there seemed something besides meditation
in those glances.

No longer was the boy inclined to doubt that the men around him were
capable of committing almost any crime.

For what were they waiting?

Frank sought to catch Wynne’s eye again. He longed to signal that they
should leave the place together, and make haste to leave it at once.

Frank did not want to get up and leave Wynne there, and he felt sure
that the fellow was remaining with a hope of discovering something that
would be of service to him.

At last Frank decided that it was best to start to leave, hoping Wynne
would follow. He paid all charges against him, and then, having thanked
Bornier for his courtesy, began to bid the rascals good-night.

Durant arose to his feet.

“You should not go so very soon, my friend,” he said, and there was a
sneer in his face and his voice.

“It is late,” said Frank, “and my guardian may already be on his way to
police headquarters to notify them that I am missing.”

“Your guardian?”

Durant lifted his eyebrows, and he laughed. That laugh was an insult. It
distinctly said: “You lie; you have no guardian.”

“Exactly,” bowed the boy, feeling the hot blood coming to his cheeks,
yet retaining his composure, “I am traveling with my guardian, and he——”

That hateful laugh cut him short.

“You do look young,” said Durant, “but looks in your case are deceptive.
I fancy you are not the boy you appear to be.”

“You are mistaken, sir. It is plain that you are seeking trouble, and
Monsieur Bornier is not the man to see one of his visitors insulted
here. Monsieur Bornier, I will go. I thank you.”

Durant made a spring. He planted himself squarely in the small doorway.

“You will not hurry,” he said. “You cannot go!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XIII.

WHAT HAPPENED TO FRANK.

“By Jawve!”

Harvey Wynne started and stared at the fierce little man in the doorway
as if thoroughly astounded.

“By Jawve!” repeated the newspaper correspondent, acting his part
perfectly. “What cawn be the meaning of this? It is blooming singular,
don’t yer know.”

Frank knew well enough what it meant. It meant trouble, and the boy
seemed to feel that it was trouble of no ordinary nature.

Still Frank was cool and deliberate. He turned to the proprietor of the
place, a ring of indignation in his voice, as he demanded:

“Is this your boasted protection to visitors, Monsieur Bornier? Am I to
be forcibly detained and robbed in your place?”

Bornier was distressed. It was plain that he did not like the turn
affairs were taking, and yet he seemed unable to interfere. He thrust
out his hand in a helpless protest, but Durant cut in, his voice rasping
like a coarse file:

“Sit down, monsieur. You will not be robbed of your money, but you have
something that you consider far more valuable.”

Frank did not mistake the meaning of the little wretch. If it was not a
case of money, then, surely, it must be one of life.

And now the boy felt his fighting blood rising. No longer was he awed by
his uncanny surroundings, and the threatening shadow that had seemed to
hang like a thundercloud over the place.

“Stand aside!” he cried, his voice ringing out clear. “Stand from that
door, man, or, by the gods of war! you will wish you had!”

There was fire in Frank Merriwell’s eyes, there was electricity in every
gesture, and the words left his lips like musket shots.

Wynne arose.

“By Jawve!” he drawled. “It weally looks like a wow, don’t yer ’now! If
there is anything I detest it is a nawsty wow.”

Then Wynne advanced toward the door, shaking his cane at Durant in a
fierce way that was ludicrously weak and foppish.

“Get wight away fwom that door!” he squawked. “If you attempt to detain
me, sir, I will cwack your blooming head with this stick!”

Frank saw the newspaper correspondent had aroused to the peril of the
situation, and that gave the boy a feeling of satisfaction. He had not
wished to leave the place unaccompanied by Wynne, but now Wynne was
ready to get out, if possible.

Durant made a sign, and the other desperate characters of the place
flocked to his side.

“You will not leave this place till we say you may go,” declared the
anarchist, his lips curling back from his wolfish teeth. “One of
you—perhaps both—may not leave it at all.”

“But I say, old chappie, what is the meaning of this?” demanded Wynne,
apparently in a flutter. “Will you tell us what we have done?”

“One of you is a spy.”

“A spy?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of a spy?”

“A spy who is very dangerous—a spy who will do us unspeakable harm if he
is allowed to escape.”

Wynne looked at Frank, and that look spoke as plainly as words. It said,
“We must make a dash for it.”

The boy felt for his revolvers. He found both weapons ready to his
touch, and out they came.

“Stand aside!” he cried, as he flung up the shining “guns.” “If you do
not clear the way, somebody will eat bullets!”

That he meant it there could be no doubt. The ruffians were not quite
prepared for this rapid movement, and they dodged and ducked to the
right and left, getting away from the muzzles of the revolvers. Even
Durant sprang aside.

But Frank had not taken one step toward the door when it was blocked by
another form.

The masked unknown was there!

“Stop!” she cried, with upflung hand. “I do not fear your bullets. Shoot
if you dare!”

The eyes that gleamed through the twin holes in her mask were like two
stars. Her gesture was one of utter fearlessness.

Frank hesitated.

“It is Mademoiselle Mystere!” said Durant, with satisfaction. “She will
tell us if either of these is the spy.”

“One of them is the spy,” declared the woman of the sable mask.

“It will not do for either to escape if one is disposed of,” said
Vaugirad, in a cutting whisper that was heard in every part of the room.

Montparnasse’s long fingers were working, twining and wrapping
themselves about each other, and there was a look of mingled hesitation
and eagerness on his foxy face.

Only Bornier seemed uncertain and distressed.

“Not here!” he cried—“you shall not do the work here!”

There was a moment of great suspense—a moment of supreme uncertainty.
Then Durant snarled:

“Who shows the white liver now is a traitor! It must be done!”

One of his hands went into the breast of his coat and came out again.
His fingers grasped the hilt of a wicked-looking knife.

Other weapons appeared, but Bornier cried again:

“Not here! I have your pledge! Would you break your oath to a comrade?”

Durant’s manner seemed to change somewhat. He thrust aside the knife.

“No,” he snarled, “we will not break the oath, but blood will be shed.
That is bound to come, you shall see.”

Frank felt that not another moment could be wasted.

Yet he did not wish to shoot down a woman, and a woman blocked the
doorway. His revolvers disappeared, and, with a fierce cry, he leaped at
Mademoiselle Mystere.

Hands were thrust out to grasp the boy, and some of them reached him.
The woman struck him fair in the face, but he did not mind the blow in
the least. He sought to tear himself free, to cast his assailants to the
right and left. In the meantime Harvey Wynne suddenly awoke. He lay
about him vigorously with his cane, sending one or two fellows reeling.
He saw Frank break clear just as the heavy stick had cut a pathway to
the door, and, springing through, he shouted:

“Come on, Merriwell!”

He believed Frank was close at his heels, and he made a rush straight
for the outer door. Two men arose up before him. He laid the head of one
open with his heavy cane, and a sharp blow broke the wrist of the other.

The door was reached. His hands fell on the bars, and they were jerked
from their sockets. Chains rattled, and, a second later, he flung
himself headlong out into the night.

Wynne ran from the spot, but only for a short distance. He whirled
about, calling to Frank, but receiving no answer. Then, for the first
time, the thought came to him that he might have deserted his friend and
countryman in that place of deadly peril.

Not a moment did Wynne pause after that thought struck him, but back to
the door of the Red Flag he dashed, ready to charge in there again, and
place himself at Frank Merriwell’s side, no matter how great the peril.

The door was closed and barred. He beat upon it. There was no answer.
The place seemed dark and deserted.

“Oh!” gasped Harvey Wynne. “What have I done! Where is that boy with the
nerves of iron?”

The thought that he had deserted Frank to a frightful fate made Wynne
feel the utmost humiliation and self-contempt. He was thoroughly
disgusted and ashamed of himself. He pictured Merriwell weltering in his
blood within that dreadful place.

Then Wynne dashed away to find a police officer. An officer was soon
found, and the excited young American told his story.

The officer looked incredulous.

“In Bornier’s?” he questioned, doubtfully.

“Yes, sir the place that is called the Red Flag!”

“Why, it’s impossible.”

“How so?”

“Bornier never has any desperadoes around him. Those chaps are mild as
new milk. Bornier keeps them there for show purposes, and gives them
fictitious records for all sorts of crimes, but never one of them all
has committed a crime beyond the most petty roguery. Do you think the
police would permit such a place to exist if Bornier’s pickpockets,
burglars, anarchists, and murderers were what he represents them to be?
Oh, you have made a mistake! You were in some other place, or you may
have been taking too much wine.”

Wynne insisted. After a time he induced the officer to accompany him to
Bornier’s. They were readily admitted.

A very tough crowd was gathered in both rooms, but Wynne saw but a
single face that he had noticed there before. Durant, Lenoir, Vaugirad
and Montparnasse were gone. Mademoiselle Mystere was gone. Bornier alone
was there. He received them smilingly, and he denied having ever seen
Wynne before.

“My dear friend,” he said, with a deprecating smile and a shrug, “you
are so very much mistaken. These people nearly all have been here one or
two hours. Ask them. There has been no fight here. I know nothing of
this young man for whom you search.”

Wynne became furious.

“Look here!” he cried: “you may convince this officer, but I know
better. This does not drop here. I plainly see I can do nothing
to-night; but you will hear from me again!”

And he left the Red Flag.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XIV.

AMERICAN BLOOD.

Frank made a desperate effort to follow Wynne through the doorway. He
had felt himself grasped again by several hands, his hard fists cracked
upon evil faces, and he had torn himself out of his coat in his mad
struggle.

In vain.

They fastened to him like leeches. They twined about him like the arms
of a deadly octopus. Samson himself would have found them troublesome.

Down upon his knees the boy was forced, and now it seemed that they had
him foul. Something like a gasp of satisfaction came from those fierce
men who had hurled themselves on one brave American lad. They had been
astounded by his nerve and the tiger-like manner in which he had fought,
and they were relieved to see him go down.

There were no cries. They were struggling silently, madly—a frightful
battle.

Frank felt them crushing upon his back, felt a hand come around and
close on his throat, felt his wind shut off in a moment by the long,
coiling fingers of Montparnasse.

“They’ll have to kill me before I give up!” he thought, and, with true
American grit, he continued the battle against terrible odds.

They were astounded that he did not succumb at once. He heard Durant
order them to make way for him to get in a blow. The boy knew that meant
a crack on the head, and he succeeded in squirming aside.

There was a cry of pain, a curse, and the fingers about his throat
relaxed their life-crushing hold.

Frank had avoided the blow, which had reached Montparnasse, the
pickpocket.

And now, with a marvelous burst of strength, the boy cast them from him,
rising with one clinging leech-like to his back.

“_Mon Dieu!_” panted Lenoir, in wonder and admiration. “Will nothing
hold him!”

“Down with the dog!” grated Durant, madly. “We should be able to handle
one boy!”

Frank was on his feet, but he found it no easy thing to shake the man
who clung to his back. That man twisted a leg about the boy and tried to
cast him down again. Another struck at Frank with a short club. The boy
ducked down and once more a blow that was intended for him reached one
of his foes.

With a snarling cry of pain, the man on his back fell away.

“Free for the moment!” came through the set teeth of the dauntless lad.
“Now for a weapon! I will make red work here!”

It was for his very life, and there was no reason why he should
hesitate. He found one of his revolvers, and tried to draw it; but the
weapon caught in his pocket, and the effort was baffled.

Mademoiselle Mystere was still in the doorway, her eyes gleaming
cat-like through the holes in the mask she wore. She noted every
movement of the struggle, and she swayed by its shifting fortunes like a
reed bowed before gusts of wind. Both hands, white, soft and slender,
were clasped over her heart.

“Who would think one of his years could fight like that!” she panted.
“It is wonderful—it is glorious! He is like a gladiator! He will not be
conquered! If I were not a spy, I could love him! His face—his! Ah, but
he is handsome! He is like a strong young lion!”

She forgot herself, she forgot everything but the brave boy who was
making that wonderful fight for life. She swayed and panted, she leaned
forward, gasping for breath, she held out her hands, she wrung them, she
sobbed.

And the battle went on. Frank had lost precious moments in trying to
draw a revolver. They were on him again, like a lot of famished wolves.
Snapping and snarling, they sought to tear him down.

Montparnasse tried once again to fasten his long fingers on the boy’s
throat. With a swinging-round shoulder blow, Frank planted a fist under
the left ear of the pickpocket.

Montparnasse went down like a stricken ox.

And now Bornier hastened to aid the men who had failed to conquer and
subdue one lone American boy. He was getting desperate, for the other
visitor had escaped, and he knew not how soon the police might be down
on the place.

“Quick!” he cried. “Will you be all night at this! Finish your work
quickly!”

“But he will not be crushed down.”

“A blow that will draw no blood—on the head! That will do it.”

“We have struck at him—and all the blows have been wasted.”

“Fools! Bunglers! The sandbag! That will fix him.”

Frank heard all this, although still fighting. He fully realized his
peril. If he were struck from behind by a sandbag, it would end the
battle in a moment. With all his strength he fought to force his way to
the wall, against which he might place his back. If he could not escape
by the door, he would do his best to hold these human wolves off yet a
little longer, hoping that Wynne might return to his aid.

“Stop him!”

Bornier understood the boy’s purpose, and he directed the others. This
enraged Durant, who fumed fiercely.

“Get back!” he snarled at Bornier. “You are in the way! We can do better
without you.”

“You have not done much thus far,” flashed the proprietor of the Red
Flag in return.

Frank retreated step by step. They penned him in and they forced him
against a table. Had he been able to look behind him, he would have seen
and avoided it.

And then, although he had scarcely shown a sign of weakness, he was
crowded hard upon the table. A sandbag struck him a glancing blow on the
head. He had tried to avoid it entirely, but failed. That blow dazed him
for a moment, and that moment was enough.

Down upon the table he was flung, something twined about him, and they
held him there, for his arms were bound, and he was snared at last.

They made sure of him. The cords cut into his flesh as they drew them
hard and tight. Knot after knot they made, and soon he was quite
helpless.

“Now for the proof,” directed Durant.

Deft fingers flitted from pocket to pocket. Out came a card—the one
Wynne had given him in front of the Café de la Paix. Durant could read
English, and when he told them what was on that card, something like a
muffled howl of fury escaped their lips.

“It is the spy! There can be no doubt! Death to the spy!”

Frank smiled scornfully. He had fought them, one against seven, and till
the sandbag had been used he was a match for them all.

“He cannot deny he is the spy!” cried Vaugirad in the boy’s face. “He
will not deny it now!”

“What is the use?” came from the lad’s lips. “You would not believe me
if I did deny it. I will not waste my breath.”

“Brave! brave! brave!” panted the masked woman, who was leaning weakly
against the door-casing. “And I brought him to this! Why are there not
more in the world like him! I could worship him! But he must die!”

She pressed both her hands over her throbbing heart, and her words were
whispered so faintly that they reached no ears but her own.

“It would be a waste of breath,” snarled the panting Durant. “We know
you are the one. You come here to pry into our secrets, to expose them
to the world. Fool! Do you think you can do what the police of Paris
have failed to accomplish? We have our agents everywhere, and no one can
make a move to harm us that we do not know. The hour of anarchy’s
triumph is here! The revolution of the world is about to open. Blood
will run, empires will fall, riches shall be scattered, and from the
ruins a new order of things shall arise. Some of us will not live to see
it; some may live to see it. But you, you American spy! you will be long
gone—decayed, turned to dust!”

Durant seemed to forget himself in his excitement. He shook out his
disheveled hair, his face working with passion, his thin lips curling
back from his wolfish teeth, his hands extended like claws that seemed
longing to fasten on the boy and rend him limb from limb.

Bornier made a move as if to grasp the fiery little wretch, and then
held off, plainly in awe. But the proprietor of the Red Flag was
agitated and alarmed.

“Remember one of them escaped,” he said. “Who can tell when he may
return with the police? Are you all drunk, or are you mad? Take the spy
away!”

“That is right,” bowed Lenoir. “We must lose no time in placing him
where he will never be found by the police.”

“We shall place him where he will never again see the light of day,”
declared Vaugirad, hoarsely.

“And send others there,” urged Bornier. “Not one of you must remain, but
others must be here when the police come.”

“We will see to that.”

Then a gag was forced between Frank Merriwell’s teeth, where it was
securely tied. This done, the boy was quickly enveloped in the
smothering folds of a blanket, after which he was lifted and carried
along by ready hands.

It seemed to the boy that he was taken from Bornier’s to the open air,
and he fancied his captors passed along where their feet made echoes
between crowding walls. Of this he was not sure, for the blanket was
baffling, and it was with great difficulty that he breathed at all.

At length some steps were descended, and then he was flung down like a
sack of wheat, striking with a shock on the hard ground. The blanket was
rudely torn from him, and he heard the footsteps of his enemies
retreating in the darkness.

Frank was relieved, although he could not understand why they did not
finish the job by killing him without delay.

He drew in deep breaths, but the air of the place was none too pure.

Already his jaws were aching from the strain of the gag, which forced
them wide apart. He made desperate but ineffectual efforts to dislodge
that gag and force it from his mouth.

There was bare, damp ground beneath his body, and this led him to
believe himself in a cellar.

He thought how, not a month before, he had been in a similar predicament
in Tangier, and how a girl had come to his rescue.

“But there is no girl in Paris who will do that,” thought the
unfortunate boy.

He thought of Harvey Wynne, and wondered why the young newspaper
correspondent had deserted him in his time of peril. A feeling of
disappointment came upon him. He had thought better of Wynne than that;
he had believed the reporter was made of the right kind of stuff.

Now that it was past, he thought of many ways in which he might have
escaped from the Red Flag. If he had done this thing, or the other, they
would not have captured him as they did.

Frank did not remain there more than ten or fifteen minutes before it
seemed that he would die from the terrible pain in his jaws, which were
held rigidly by the hard gag. He could not close his mouth to swallow,
and it seemed that his throat was filling and he would strangle.

“This is really a very jolly little time!” he thought. “This gagging
business makes it just a trifle unpleasant, however.”

Then he heard a sound as of an open door, heard a light footfall, turned
his head, and saw a gleam of light.

Some one was coming! Without doubt his foes were returning to finish
their work. He had not much longer to live.

Down some stairs came the bearer of a lamp, and a cry of astonishment
would have escaped Frank’s lips if the gag had not held it back.

It was Mademoiselle Mystere, the masked unknown!

The boy was astonished and dazed for the moment, and, when he had
recovered a bit, the woman of mystery was close at hand.

Then he saw something that gave him a shock. She bore the lamp in her
left hand; in her right she held a gleaming dagger, on which the
lamplight glinted.

“She has been chosen as the executioner!” was the thought that flashed
through the boy’s mind. “She has come to kill me! It is probable she is
one of the anarchist band, and they drew lots to see who should do the
work.

“It fell to her. Well, she shall not see me quail.”

The woman bent over him, holding the lamp so the light fell fairly on
his face. She lifted the knife, as if about to strike. Bound and
helpless as he was, Frank could not defend himself from the fatal
stroke. He looked straight into her eyes—and smiled!

“He fears nothing!” panted the strange woman. “He is the bravest one in
all the wide world! It is too bad that he must die!”

Then she lowered the knife, and, with its keen edge, cut the cord that
held the gag in the boy’s mouth.

Frank worked his jaws some moments, and then, when he could speak, he
said:

“Thank you. You are very kind. That beastly thing was getting mightily
unpleasant, you know.”

“Is it possible you understand you are to be killed?” she asked,
fiercely.

“Well, I should imagine that I might think something of the kind was to
happen to me. I beg your pardon, but I am not quite a fool.”

“And still you do not seem to fear. I do not understand you yet! Do you
wish to die?”

“Well, I am not exactly yearning for it. I wouldn’t mind living a short
time longer just for the fun of the thing.”

“But I tell you that you are doomed to die. They are drawing now to see
who shall do the work.”

“That is pleasant information! You make me feel real jolly. But I did
fancy they had drawn, and the job had fallen to you.”

“No. They do not know I am here. I slipped through when they did not see
me. I could not stay away. I wanted to see you again before you were
killed.”

“Which is exceedingly thoughtful and considerate! As you happen to be
the one who got me into the scrape, I presume you wished to gloat over
me a little. Well, go ahead; I think I am able to stand it.”

“No, no, no! You wrong me—you do not understand me!”

“That’s right.”

“Perhaps I did bring you to this. It was for the good of the cause. My
brother is an anarchist, and he is in prison. I am an anarchist, and I
am free. I was sent to find the spy, and I found you.”

“In which you made a very bad break, mademoiselle. I am not the spy; but
I do not suppose I could make you believe that in a week of Sundays, so
I will not use up my energy trying.”

“Oh, it is no use to say that now! The card was in your pocket——”

“Given me by another; but never mind—go on.”

“You are young. It cannot be you are one who has set his life to work
against our noble order. You were sent by the newspaper, and you would
promise never to molest anarchists again if set free.”

“I have not molested them thus far, my dear girl.”

“Do not say it—I know!” she panted, impatiently. “No time is to be lost.
They may finish and come very soon. Then it will be too late. I can save
you.”

Frank lifted his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

“It is true.”

“Well, you will earn my everlasting gratitude if you do; but I do not
see why you should.”

“Ah! Till I saw you fight them all in Bornier’s—till I saw you knock
them right and left with your fists—till I saw you rise to your feet
with them all upon you—till then I had thought I hated you as a spy. But
you were so like a strong young lion—so like a gladiator battling for
his life! All in a moment it came to me that I did not want to see you
killed. My heart nearly burst in my bosom. I pressed on it with my hands
to hold it there, and I watched you when you fought. You were so
brave—so noble! Never had I seen one like you! I prayed for you!”

“Well, by Jove!” gasped Frank. “That was a sudden conversion! Only I
wish it had taken place before that.”

She leaned over him, having placed the lamp on the ground. The light
glinted on her eyes, which shone through the holes in the mask. Her
panting breath fluttered the lower edge of the sable covering of her
face. The boy saw her chin was well-formed, her neck was round and
white.

“Perhaps it is not too late!” she went on. “Look at me! I have this
knife—I can set you free!”

“Do so, and I will never forget the favor. You will not be sorry if you
aid me to escape from this place. I promise you that.”

“Wait! I have more to say. I am not——”

There was a grating sound, and a heavy step on the stairs, from whence
came a gleam of light.

“God of Heaven!” panted the masked unknown. “It is too late! The
executioner is coming!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XV.

NEAR DEATH.

In truth the executioner was coming. Already he had stepped upon the
first stair, and now there was no escape.

Mademoiselle Mystere caught up the lamp and blew out the light in a
twinkling. It was done so swiftly that the man on the stair did not
discover there had been a light in the cellar.

“Keep still! Trust me!”

The words were panted into Frank Merriwell’s ear, and then the
mysterious unknown glided away into the darkness.

Down the stairs came the executioner. In his hand he bore a lamp, and
the light showed his evil face, with the thin, cruel lips that so often
curled back over the wolfish teeth.

It was Emile Durant.

It had fallen upon him to do the bloody work of putting the spy out of
the way, and he was coming to do the deed.

The light flickered over the dark face of the anarchist, making it look
more evil than before. One look at him would have told any one that he
was bent on some dreadful piece of business. There was a frightful
expression in his beady eyes, and his dry lips had parted a bit, so his
yellow teeth showed beneath the narrow little black mustache.

The anarchist reached the foot of the stairs and turned toward the boy.
He came forward with a steady step, which showed he did not shrink from
his task, horrible though it was.

Frank glanced about for Mademoiselle Mystere. She seemed to have
vanished completely, but there were dark nooks in the cellar where she
might be lurking.

The lamplight caused Durant’s small figure to throw a huge shadow along
the ground, up the wall, and against the ceiling overhead. The shadow
kept close at his heels, like a crouching giant. It seemed likely to
fall upon him and crush him. It hovered like a black and evil thing.

Durant saw the boy, and he was soon crouching at Frank’s side. He was
astonished to see the gag was no longer in Merriwell’s mouth.

“How did you get it out?” he asked, wonderingly. “I thought it was put
there to stay until removed.”

“Oh, it was put in hastily,” said the boy. “It came out easily enough.”

Durant scowled. He did not like this immediate reply, and he was
astonished to find the captive did not beg or cry out in terror.

“Well, it makes no difference,” he growled. “If you were to yell your
head off, no one would hear you outside this cellar.”

“That being the case, I am not going to attempt to yell my head off,
thank you. It would be a clean waste of breath.”

The little anarchist uttered a curse.

“Fool!” he grated. “You do not seem to realize that you are doomed to
die. I am here to kill you!”

“Well, I presume you will do it in a decent sort of way. I am not
hankering to be tortured to death.”

Durant drew back. What manner of human being was this who could face
death thus calmly?

For some moments the man was silent. He believed the boy had not yet
come to realize that everything was in earnest, and was not a practical
joke.

And Frank was wondering if Mademoiselle Mystere could save him—if she
would.

“She must be given time,” thought the boy. “I must take up Durant’s
attention. He must not hear or see her.”

So Frank said:

“As long as I am to be killed, and there is no escaping such a fate,
would you mind telling me just what this is about? Why have you taken so
much pains to put me out of the way?”

“You are a spy, sent here by a prying newspaper, and you are dangerous
to our brotherhood. If you are not put out of the way, you may learn
some of our secrets and reveal them to the world. All this you know very
well.”

“My dear sir, you have made one of the biggest mistakes of your life. I
am exactly what I have represented myself to be—a youth who is traveling
for pleasure. If you give me a little time, I could prove all that I
claim. I could prove that I am not connected with a newspaper, and never
have been.”

“Bah! What about your card, which we found in one of your pockets?”

“That card was given me by a young man whom I met here in this city. It
was the only one I had. If you had looked in my coat, which was torn
from my back, it is pretty certain you would have found my cardcase, in
which were my cards with my right name upon them.”

“A trick! It would not go. It is useless to talk.”

“But I happen to feel very much like talking just now, as it may be the
last opportunity I will have in this world. If you would not interrupt
me, I’d talk all night—really I would. Now, you know it is not polite to
interrupt a gentleman who is speaking, and you Frenchmen are the
embodiment of politeness, so I trust you will make no breach of decorum
in my case. If I see that you are about to lay violent hands upon me, I
shall begin to talk, and I shall keep right on as long as you will
permit.”

Durant showed his teeth in a grin that was anything but pleasant.

“Very good,” he sneered. “Very funny. But this will stop your joking. It
will sober you down very much.”

He produced his knife, a most wicked-looking instrument.

“I should say it might,” agreed Frank. “I am sorry I have offended you
in any way, Monsieur Durant. Indeed, I think I am going to be very much
cut up about it.”

Durant stared. He caught the pun, and he wondered if the boy had
actually meant it for a joke. Frank winked in a most mischievous manner,
and the man swore.

“It is too bad to cut the throat of a fellow with so much sand,” he
declared. “Are all American boys like you?”

“Nearly all of them. It’s a way we have over the pond. It’s all in
getting used to it, you know.”

“You would make a good anarchist.”

“Think so?”

“It is certain. You would not be afraid of anything. If you were chosen
to assassinate the president, you would do it, even if you knew it meant
certain death for you. If we were to let you live, would you become one
of us?”

“What’s that? Become an anarchist?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have never considered the matter.”

“I will give you ten seconds to consider it.”

“And then?”

“If you agree to become one of us, I will lay the matter before the
brotherhood. If you do not——”

Durant ended with a suggestive gesture with the knife in his hand.

“Ten seconds is a short time.”

“Think—not talk!”

Durant bent over the helpless lad, clutching his shoulder with his free
hand. The wicked knife was held in a position for a sweep across the
boy’s throat.

Where was Mademoiselle Mystere?

Then a nerve-breaking thought came to Frank. Perhaps the woman had been
sent there by the villains to excite his hopes—to torture him thus, and
then to desert him to his fate. Perhaps Durant was working on the same
scheme. If Frank said he would join the anarchists, it was possible the
little wretch would laugh in his face, and then cut his throat.

“Your answer,” demanded Durant—“is it yes or no?”

“No!”

“Then die!”

“Not yet!”

Crack—a stone descended on the head of Emile Durant, and the little
ruffian dropped in a senseless heap, struck down by the woman of the
mask.

She flung aside the stone, which she had found in the cellar, and with
which she had crept cat-like behind Durant.

“Now,” she panted, dropping beside Frank Merriwell, “I have become a
traitor to save you—all because I like your boldness. What a fool I am.”

She cut his bonds, and set him free.

Those cords had cut into the boy’s flesh so that circulation of the
blood had been arrested, and he found himself benumbed, although free.

Mademoiselle Mystere had dragged the unconscious Durant from the lad,
across whose legs the anarchist had fallen. The little wretch lay upon
the ground, and the light from the lamp shone athwart his evil face. The
jaw had fallen, and the thin lips still exposed those wolfish teeth. The
little mustache, coal-black in color, curled down around the corners of
his cruel mouth. His eyes were closed, but there was a sneer on his
face. Across one temple was a streak of blood.

After a little, Frank sat up and looked down at that face. Truly it was
the face of one who would delight in riot and ruin, who would revel in
burning and bloodshed, who would tear out his very life to overthrow the
existing order of things.

Merriwell felt that it was little short of a marvel that Durant, who had
come there to slay a helpless spy, now lay senseless on the ground,
while the supposed spy was free from the cords that had held him like
bands of iron.

“By Jove!” muttered the boy; “that is an ugly mug. I wonder if he really
meant to give me a chance as one of the brotherhood?”

“Surely he did,” declared the masked unknown. “He admired your nerve,
and he believed you would make a good anarchist—one who could be
depended on to execute the orders of those high in power and authority.
I did hope that you might consent to join the band, for that would have
kept me from turning traitor—from lifting my hand against one of the
brotherhood. But when you refused, then I knew I must strike quickly, or
it would be all over with you.”

“Well, I am greatly obliged. You did the job nicely, and I congratulate
you. You struck him hard enough to crack his skull.”

“Ah! what a miserable creature I am!” she cried, passionately. “What
will not a woman do if she is in love!”

“Cæsar’s ghost!” thought Frank. “I am in a pretty box! When she finds I
am not in love with her, she will hate me again, and then I will stand a
good chance of getting her dagger right where I live. That’s pleasant to
contemplate!”

But he was no longer bound, and he could make one more struggle for
life. There was no little satisfaction in that thought. Almost anything
was preferable to his position of a short time before.

He felt one of Mademoiselle Mystere’s arms slip around his neck, and she
was breathing swiftly, hotly at his ear:

“You must take me to America—anywhere that is far from Paris and the
brotherhood! I have done all this for you! I have made myself false to
my oath, and I shall be despised ever after by my own brother and his
comrades. Think of that, my hero! Think what a poor fool of a girl has
done for you!”

The situation was far from pleasant for Frank Merriwell, who could but
compare this strange woman with a tigress.

He thought of dark-eyed Inza, whom he had known at Fardale, and who had
been the “Queen of Flowers” at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. He thought of
Elsie Bellwood, with blue eyes and golden hair—Elsie whom he had saved
from many dangers, and who loved him tenderly, truly.

A strong desire to repulse this unknown girl came over him—a desire to
thrust her away.

And it might cost him his life.

He reached up and took her hand, soft and warm, to gently remove her arm
from about his neck. She clung closer, whispering:

“Promise—promise me! You must give me your word!”

“How can I tell you that? I have not even seen your face.”

“It is true; I had forgotten. You shall see it now.”

She snatched away the mask, pushed him back, held him by the shoulders
with both hands, and turned her face so the lamplight shone full upon
it.

“Look!” she panted. “Did I lie when I told you I was handsome? Are you
satisfied now?”

The mask had fallen, and he saw that she was handsome in a wild, fierce
way, with eyes black as the depths of eternal night, lips red and full,
curving like a Cupid’s bow, and the flush of excitement and passion in
her cheeks.

Frank did not speak. Truly there was a fascination in her eyes, a sort
of hypnotic power, that held him spellbound.

There was a stir and a faint groan beside them, and the boy flung her
off in a twinkling, turning all his attention to Durant, who showed
signs of reviving.

He was not swifter than Mademoiselle Mystere herself, who was on the man
in a moment, her hands at his throat, her knee pressed into his stomach.

“Quick—the cords!” she fluttered. “Bind his hands and feet—bind him
securely! Make every knot tell, and do not lose a second.”

Frank caught up the rope, and obeyed her directions with alacrity. If
Durant was able to raise an alarm when he revived, there was little
chance for them to escape. He would bring the other anarchists down on
them with a rush.

“His feet,” panted the girl. “Now you have them. Make it solid—so. Over
with him on his face. Draw it tight. He must not be able to wiggle so
much as a finger. Around here—and here again. Give me that end—now
pull.”

And thus they worked together.

“The gag,” called Mademoiselle Mystere. “He is coming around! Quick with
the gag, before he can raise an alarm!”

The gag was found and thrust into Durant’s mouth, his jaws having been
pried apart.

Barely had they succeeded in their work when the man’s eyes opened, and
he stared at them. In a moment it was evident that he knew fortune had
turned against him, for he saw Frank bending over him. Deadly and
undying hatred shot from his eyes, and he tried to start up, but fell
back, a groan coming hollowly, chokingly from behind the gag.

The girl had turned away swiftly, that Durant might not see her face,
and her features were hidden by the mask when she looked back. In
Frank’s ear she whispered:

“He has never seen me unmasked.”

There was astonishment and accusation in Durant’s eyes. He looked at her
questioningly, and, for a moment, she seemed to turn away in shame. Then
she turned back boldly, saying, as if answering the man’s question:

“Yes, it is I. I struck you, Emile Durant. I did so to save this lad.”

She spoke wildly, yet with the utmost confidence, as if it was quite
settled between herself and Frank.

Durant squirmed and scowled. It was plain that he longed to speak, and
he looked bitter curses from his eyes.

“We are wasting time here,” said Frank. “We must be getting away before
others of the band come.”

“You are right,” admitted Mademoiselle Mystere. “We will go. Farewell,
Emile. Tell the brotherhood that their secrets are safe with me. Tell
them the spy shall never bother them more. In saving one I love I am a
traitor, but that is all. My heart is still true to the cause, and I
shall pray for its success. Farewell.”

The helpless Frenchman squirmed again, his face furious. He frothed at
the mouth, and hoarse gurglings came from his throat. The cords stood
out on his neck and temples, and he started up, falling back with a
despairing moan.

“It is useless,” declared the masked girl. “Every knot is solid, and you
cannot break the cord. You may as well keep still and make the best of
it.”

She took up the lamp, and led the way.

Frank had no weapon, and so he picked up the stone with which the
strange girl had struck Durant senseless.

“One more effort for life,” he thought. “Shall we succeed in getting out
of the snare? We must!”

He followed the masked mystery.

They ascended the stairs and reached the door, which opened to her
touch. In the doorway she paused to listen. A distant murmur of voices
came to their ears. Mademoiselle Mystere made a sharp gesture of anger
and dismay.

“They are waiting for Emile,” she whispered; “and they are between us
and the door. We cannot get out without passing them.”

“And the door——”

“Is locked, bolted and chained. It cannot be opened quickly.”

“Have you a pistol?”

“No.”

“Your only weapon is your knife?”

“Yes.”

“That is not enough; but we must do our best. Come on.”

He would have taken the lead, but she held him back.

“I know every step of the way, and you must trust in me. Keep hold of
me, and I will lead you through the dark, for the lamp must be
extinguished.”

She put out the light, and then her hand fluttered to his in the
darkness. It grasped his fingers and gave them a sharp pressure. He
heard her softly close the door that opened into the cellar.

“Come on,” she said, in turn. “We must find a way to the street, if it
leads through blood!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SPY.

With no little trouble they had finally reached a position where, by
drawing a door slightly ajar, they could look into a room where seven
men were seated, listening attentively to one who was standing and
speaking.

These men were seated around a long, bare wooden table. The one who was
on his feet stood in the place of honor at the head of the table.

They were bizarre. Some were small and heavy. One was thin, with
drooping shoulders, sunken chest, skinny neck, forward thrust, with a
long head, bulging at the temples, and straight, fine hair. He wore
spectacles, and looked like a person who had studied much. His skin was
yellow beneath the lamplight.

Another had a big head, with a lion-like mane of hair. His hands were
coarse and pudgy, and his eyelids over-hung his eyes so that he was
forced to lean far backward to look up at the speaker.

One little Frenchman was wonderfully narrow between the eyes, which were
moving, moving, moving all the time. He seemed the embodiment of energy
and restlessness.

Peri Montparnasse, with his long, twining, snaky fingers, was there.
François Lenoir, his long hair back-flung, his attitude studied and
stagey, was there. Fabian Vaugirad, with his square jaw and bull-like
neck, was there.

The man who was standing wore a full beard, and, in a certain way, he
was handsome. He looked very mild and harmless, for all of his beard,
and he spoke in a voice that was soft, soothing and musical. It was
plain, however, that he was not a Frenchman, for he was often forced to
pause and grope for a word, and his pronunciation was broken.

In his hand this man held something that gave Frank Merriwell a start.

It was a bomb!

The man was explaining about the construction of the deadly thing in his
fingers. He told that if it should slip and fall upon the table every
one in that room would be instantly killed, and the building would be
wrecked!

And the men around the table betrayed not the least excitement or alarm.

Before the speaker lay other bombs, some round balls with fuse
attachments, some made in pieces of gaspipe, six inches in length, some
formed one way, and some another.

Near the bombs sat a tiny square box, very harmless in appearance.

Mademoiselle Mystere pressed close to Frank, whispering in his ear:

“That man is Novesky, the great Russian nihilist and manufacturer of
death-dealing devices. He was forced to flee from Russia, and he is in
hiding in France. He is married and has several children. It is said
that he is the tenderest and most considerate of husbands and fathers,
yet for the cause to which his life is devoted he would shed rivers of
blood without a qualm.”

“Strange creatures these!” thought the boy. “I cannot understand them at
all. They must be mentally unbalanced.”

One by one Novesky picked up the bombs and explained about them, telling
how to handle them, and for what purpose each was designed. He seemed to
be very careless in his manner of handling the deadly things, and still
Frank saw that he was not. Each bomb was carefully returned to the table
when Novesky had finished explaining about it and its use.

At last the nihilist came to the small square box.

“This, my brothers, is the most deadly and effectual instrument of all,”
he said. “It is something that you may conceal to-day and set for its
work to-morrow, the next day, a week from now. It will not fail; it will
accomplish its mission at the hour set. You may be in England, may be
afar on the ocean, bound for some foreign land; when the hour and the
minute arrives, this little instrument will fulfill its mission. It is
called the infernal machine.”

Then he set about describing the workings of the deadly invention,
telling them how to handle it and how to set it for an explosion.

Frank was fascinated, and he quite forgot his own position of peril. He
listened with the keenest interest.

Once again Mademoiselle Mystere whispered in his ear, and this time she
said:

“Even if you could prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are not a
spy, what you have heard while standing here is enough to condemn you to
death. Knowing that you know what you do, they would not let you escape
for fortunes.”

“Very pleasant information, indeed!” thought the boy, but he did not
whisper the words for her to hear.

From that moment Frank’s impatience grew. The delay in escaping from the
building might be fatal. If he could get out without further delay—if he
could inform the police that these men were gathered here. Such a move
might crush anarchy in Paris, and it was for his interest to have those
men captured, executed, or imprisoned. Even if he escaped, they would
not forget him, and they might follow like hounds on his track if he
were to flee from France.

The anarchists were growing impatient. Some of them glanced toward the
door, which was in the shadow of a heavy curtain. Why was Durant so long
in the cellar? Surely he had taken time enough to finish his work twice
over.

Novesky finished speaking and sat down. There was no applause, but the
strange band fell to conversing in a subdued way. They did not drink,
and they had the air of scholars and scientists.

Lenoir got upon his feet, and they gave him their attention. He flung
back his long hair, struck an attitude, and recited a poem. It was about
the wrongs of the masses and the red day that was coming when anarchy
should triumph and the blood of aristocrats should flow like crimson
rivers in the streets of Paris.

He sat down, and it was plain that his fiery words had wrought upon
them. They showed it in their eyes, their faces, and their words and
gestures. They shook hands with each other, and they nodded over what
they had heard.

Then somebody asked for Durant, and all fell to wondering why he did not
return from the cellar.

“He has had time enough twice over to finish the spy, drop him through
the manhole into the sewer, and return,” said Vaugirad.

“That is true—quite true,” purred Montparnasse.

“Some one should go down and see why he is so long,” suggested Lenoir.
“I am ready to do so. Shall I go?”

“Go on, go on,” urged one and all.

The poet-burglar arose to his feet. (He was no burglar at all, and
Montparnasse was not a pickpocket; that was a little fiction of
Bornier’s to interest those who visited his place.) He turned toward the
door behind which stood Frank Merriwell and his masked companion.

“He is coming!” whispered Mademoiselle Mystere. “All is lost! We shall
not be able to escape!”

“Follow me!” returned the dauntless boy. “We will make a break for
liberty, and, taking them by surprise, as we shall, we may succeed. It
is one chance in a thousand; but we must take that chance.”

Frank nerved himself for the struggle that was to come. He gripped the
stone in hand, ready to bring it down with crushing force on the head of
Lenoir.

Tinkle-tinkle-ting! From some hidden spot a tiny bell rang out, causing
the anarchists to start and look at each other. Lenoir paused on his way
to the door and turned back.

“It is Verlain—it must be,” said Montparnasse. “What can have caused him
to leave his post and come here at this hour?”

“Something is up!” declared Vaugirad. “Admit him quickly.”

Two of them hastened from the room, and Frank drew a long, long breath
of momentary relief.

Those who remained behind speculated on the meaning of the signal.

In a few moments there was a sound of feet, and then one of the men who
had hastened to answer the signal came bursting into the room. Behind
him entered two men who clutched something that was enfolded in a
blanket. The other end of this something was carried by yet another.

The door was closed, and the object they had brought into the room was
dropped on the floor. Every man was on his feet, and all were asking
questions.

“There has been a great mistake,” declared one of the new arrivals, who
was Verlain. “Charron, our agent, is here. There he stands. He it was
who notified us that the spy was coming, and now he says we have made a
blunder—we have the wrong one. The one in the cellar is not the spy.”

“Is not?” cried several of the astonished anarchists.

“Then who is the spy?”

“We have him here! Look!”

The blanket was removed from the bundle it had concealed, and a man,
securely bound and gagged, was revealed. Montparnasse lifted a lamp from
the table and held it so the light fell on the face of the helpless
captive.

“The Englishman!” he cried.

“The spy!” asserted Charron.

“Harvey Wynne!” gasped Frank.

Mademoiselle Mystere clasped a hand over the boy’s lips, whispering in
his ear:

“Silence! They will hear you!”

But the anarchists were making considerable noise, and the boy was not
heard.

Harvey Wynne was conscious, and his keen eyes roved from face to face of
the terrible men around him. He was mentally noting the appearance of
each one.

For a little time the anarchists were so astonished that they could no
more than talk confusedly among themselves, with many shrugs and
gestures.

“If the one in the cellar is not the spy, who is he?” asked Lenoir.

“He must be what he represented himself to be—a tourist,” said Vaugirad.
“Mademoiselle Mystere is responsible for the blunder.”

“It is unaccountable how she could have made it.”

“By this time the youngster in the cellar is dead. He may no longer be
in the cellar; Durant may have cast the body through the manhole.”

“And even if he were alive and unharmed, it would not do to let him go
free. It would be necessary to destroy him.”

Novesky spoke.

“The shedding of innocent blood is always deplorable,” he said; “but it
cannot be helped sometimes, and we should let nothing stand between us
and the advancement of our noble cause.”

“Right!” flashed Lenoir.

“How did you happen to capture the true spy?” asked Montparnasse.

“He returned to the Red Flag with an officer,” explained Verlain.
“Charron was there and saw him. He recognized the spy instantly, and we
followed him. When he had left the police and was making his way home,
we came upon him where it was dark, and we soon had him down. Then it
was not difficult to call a cab, and make the driver believe we were
taking a drunken comrade home. This is Grand Prix night, you know, and
the whole city is carousing.”

“Grand Prix night?” thought Frank Merriwell. “And is it possible all
these things have happened in one night? Why, it seems as if days must
have passed since we first saw Mademoiselle Mystere in front of the Café
de la Paix.”

The masked girl drew closer to the boy.

“There is no hope for us,” she whispered. “Now they will give us no
opportunity to escape.”

“We must fight.”

“It is useless.”

“I am not so sure of that.”

“I cannot lift a hand against them.”

“Well, I can. I have a scheme. Will you listen?”

“Go on.”

“Go in there, make some excuse, and pass through. Go to the door and
unbolt it. Fling it wide open, and leave it thus. Then return to this
room. When I see you come back, I shall know you have left the door
open, and I will make a dash. Together we may get out upon the street.”

“It is useless, I tell you.”

“Why so?”

“Even though we were to reach the street, we could not get away.”

“Why not?”

“They would follow hot after us, like hounds that smell the fox himself.
The streets are dark, and this is the one quarter of Paris that may be
called low and bad. They would run us down, and finish the work in the
street.”

“Well, even if they do, it is better than being butchered here, like
sheep. We can make a break for life.”

It required considerable urging, but she finally consented.

“For you I will try it,” she said.

She clung about his neck a moment, and it was well the anarchists were
speaking excitedly in the room close at hand, else they might have heard
her breathing hoarsely.

With a sob, she tore herself from him. Then she boldly opened wide the
door and walked into the room.

They were astonished to see her enter by that door, and they shot a
score of questions at her. She lied glibly, declaring she had gone to
the cellar to see the executioner finish the spy. She said she had
hidden in the cellar and watched Durant cut the throat of the helpless
captive. She laughed as she told how the blood had spurted.

“Merciful Heaven!” thought the listening boy. “What a creature she is!
She has nerves of steel, and a heart of iron!”

Then Durant had finished the captive in the cellar? They asked her that.
Yes, the wretch was dead.

But he was not the spy; she had made a mistake. She would not believe
it; she pretended to be very angry. And then Charron stepped forward,
and told her of her error.

The masked mystery seemed quite overcome. She had received Charron’s
description of the spy, and she explained how she had come to settle on
Frank Merriwell as the one.

When they told her Wynne was the spy, she seemed eager to slay him with
her own hand. They grasped her, and held her back, whereupon she grew
angry, and flung herself out of the room.

“She is an admirable actress,” thought the watching boy. “Too bad she is
connected with such wretches as these. Why, she could become another
Bernhardt!”

He knew that she would not be long away, and he was right. She returned
just as Lenoir was once more starting for the cellar to see what kept
Durant so long.

“He is cleaning up the blood-stains, so the police can find no sign if
they come upon us,” declared the masked girl.

Frank prepared for the rush, and then he was staggered by a sudden
thought.

What if he escaped? They would be sure to kill Wynne with great haste.
He would not be given time to arouse the police and bring them back to
rescue the young newspaper correspondent.

For a moment the boy hesitated, and then a most desperate resolution
formed in his mind. He tore open the door, leaped into the room, shot
toward the table, and snatched up one of the bombs.

So quickly was this done that the boy was given an opportunity to
retreat to the door that led toward the street and freedom. In that
doorway he paused, the bomb held high above his head.

Vaugirad held a pistol, which was pointed straight at the boy.

“Shoot!” cried Frank, in French. “When you fire, I shall drop this bomb,
and we will all be blown into a thousand pieces! It means death for
every one of us!”

The men cowered and shrank back, their faces blanching. They saw that
the boy had snatched up the bomb which Novesky had proclaimed the most
deadly of the collection. If it were dropped to the floor, it must
explode.

“Upon him!” hissed Lenoir. “Tear it from his hand!”

“Stop!” commanded the Russian Nihilist. “It cannot be done! The bomb
will fall, and that will mean death and destruction! Hold a moment!”

They cowered, and then Montparnasse tried to creep toward the lad.

“Back!” shouted Frank, fiercely. “Keep back, or by the eternal skies! I
will cast this thing to the floor!”

Montparnasse fell back, cursing beneath his breath. Vaugirad whirled on
Mademoiselle Mystere.

“How is it you said the boy was dead, and he is here alive?” he
demanded. “Have you gone mad, girl?”

“There is no time for words,” came harshly from Frank Merriwell’s lips.
“I am not dead, but very much alive, as you can see. However, I am quite
ready to die with the rest of you, if you do not obey me in everything.
Do you understand?”

They were silent. Their faces showed great fear and fury. They could not
understand how this situation had come about, and so they were still
somewhat bewildered.

“Set that man free,” commanded Frank, pointing to Wynne. “If you
refuse—if you hesitate—I swear by all I hold dear to blow you all to
atoms!”

He looked as if he meant every word he uttered. In his eyes was the
glare of one that had become reckless of his own life.

“Lenoir,” said the boy, “you will take your knife and set the captive at
liberty. You are to cut his bonds, but not harm him. If you harm him, I
will drop the bomb, and this brotherhood will cease to exist in a
twinkling.”

And so Lenoir was forced to obey. He got down on his knees and cut the
cords which held Harvey Wynne.

The young newspaper correspondent got up, saying:

“Merriwell, you are a terror! Your match does not live!”

Frank stepped aside from the door.

“Go out this way,” he directed, “and do not stop till the street is
reached. Do not stop even then, but get away as fast as you can. I will
take care of myself.”

“But I cannot desert you now. I did once, and I am ashamed——”

“Do as I tell you, and be lively about it.” Wynne obeyed.

Frank waited till he was sure the fellow was outside the building, and
then said:

“I am going now. If you attempt to crowd me, I shall kill somebody with
this bomb. Beware! Keep back!”

Then he retreated through the doorway and made a dash for freedom. He
reached the street, but barely had he done so, when there was a
frightful explosion behind him. He was cast upon his face, beaten upon
and buried by _débris_. After some moments he struggled up and dragged
himself from the mass. Then he saw that the building he had just left
was in ruins.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XVII.

BY A HAIR’S BREADTH.

Just how that explosion came about will never be known. It is probable
that, in springing after the escaping boy, one of the men overturned the
table, casting the bombs upon the floor.

The building was entirely wrecked. Amid the ruins were found the bodies
of several men and a woman. Some of the men were horribly mangled, and
it was said that others had been blown to atoms, so their bodies could
not be gathered.

The woman was not mangled, but she had been instantly killed. She was
taken to the morgue, and Frank Merriwell saw her there upon a marble
slab. She was still very beautiful, with a bit of color in her cheeks,
and her parted lips showing her snowy teeth. Her eyes were closed, and
she seemed to be sleeping.

No one seemed to know her; but she was not given a nameless grave. Frank
saw that she was buried and that a headstone was placed above her, on
which was inscribed, “Mlle. Mystere.” That was all.

Frank and Wynne had escaped from the vicinity of the explosion, and,
having consulted together, decided not to tell the Paris police what
they knew, as they might be detained and caused no end of trouble.

When Professor Scotch heard the story, he was appalled.

“Mercy me! mercy me!” he gasped, holding up his hands. “I had much
better taken you to the Moulin Rouge! There you could not have been in
such danger.”

To Frank it seemed like a fantastic dream. He could scarcely realize
that all those events had actually taken place.

“Anyway, I have seen enough of Paris, and I am ready to move on,” he
said.

“Me, too, by gum!” nodded Ephraim Gallup.

No time was lost in quitting the city.

Frank had already made up his mind where to go next.

“I want to see something of Spain,” he said. “Let us go to Madrid.”

“Any sport there?” queried Ephraim.

“Well, I reckon there is a little,” returned Frank. He was thinking of
the bull fights, of which he had often read.

There was a long talk. Professor Scotch wanted Frank to go direct to
London. But the youth was stubborn and said he would not go until he had
visited Madrid.

So the following day saw them on their way to the principal city of
Spain.

Arriving at Madrid they put up at a first-class hotel fronting the main
square of the city.

Then Frank went sight-seeing in earnest, along with Ephraim and the
professor, and thus the days slipped by pleasantly enough.

The horrible happenings at Paris were forgotten, and Frank enjoyed
himself immensely.

The same, however, cannot be said of the professor.

To tell the truth, the Spaniards were still sore over the way their
country had been treated by the United States during the trouble in
Cuba, and it was only by pretending to be Englishmen that they passed in
many public places without getting into trouble.

One day they got into something of a warm row in the streets and the
professor rushed back to the hotel full of excitement and alarm. When
the boys followed they found him walking up and down one of their rooms
in great nervousness.

“I won’t stand it!” said Professor Scotch. “No, I won’t stand it. Why,
we may all be murdered!”

“Come off, professor!” cried Frank, disdainfully. “That the Spanish are
hot-blooded and quick-tempered I will admit, but I do not believe they
would deliberately murder us, even if they knew we were Americans. Some
of the more excitable might mob us, but I do not fancy they would go any
further.”

The professor wagged his head knowingly.

“You can’t tell,” he said. “It was a crazy notion of yours, Frank, this
coming here to Madrid. I didn’t want to come, but you made me feel that
I would be guilty of ‘robbing you of a wider knowledge of the world,’ as
you put it, if I did not let you visit Spain.”

Frank winked at Ephraim.

“That was it exactly, professor,” he nodded. “And now, with one
exception, we have seen all I desire to see of Spain. Madrid is to Spain
what Paris is to France or London to England. I have studied the people,
have seen palaces, fountains, museums, triumphal arches and so forth. I
have passed the statue of Murillo, traversed the street of the Turk,
where General Prim was assassinated, visited the Square of Cortez and
the Square of the Orient, beheld the royal palace, and done other things
too numerous to mention. And now—now——”

“Now——”

“I am going to see the bull fights.”

“Horrible! I cannot allow it—I forbid it, sir!”

“Be careful, professor!”

“Er—er—what do you mean, Frank?”

“Remember the Moulin Rouge in Paris. I wanted to visit that, and you
would not permit it till you had investigated. You went off to
investigate, and while you were gone I visited another place, and got
into the worst scrape of my life. Beware, professor.”

Scotch shivered.

“What can I do with you?” he cried, in despair.

“Take me to see the bull fights,” smiled Frank, in a jolly way.

“But it is a terrible and degrading spectacle—something that should not
be tolerated in a civilized country.”

“Remember that we have prize fights in the United States.”

“I do not countenance prize fights, but bull fights are worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. There are various opinions on that point.”

“And you boys are liable to get into trouble there. You know how you got
into trouble, Frank, because you insisted that the United States could
wipe Spain off the face of the earth. That scar-faced fellow wanted to
murder you.”

“He might have done it, too, b’gosh! ef Frank hadn’t knocked the
stuffin’ aout uv him with that round-shoulder blow uv his,” put in the
boy from Vermont.

“His friends followed us to the hotel,” said Professor Scotch. “They
will be watching for us, and the best thing we can do is to get out of
Madrid and Spain as soon as possible.”

“I’ll not go till I have seen the bull fights, professor,” asserted
Frank Merriwell, obstinately. “Why, what did you think I rushed you off
to Madrid for? Did you fancy it was because I was so eager to see this
city? Well, you were mistaken. I heard that the bull fighting season was
at its height here, and I came for the sole purpose of witnessing the
spectacle.”

The professor groaned and sank into a chair, mopping his face with a
handkerchief.

“I have thought you a man, Frank,” he said, sadly; “but I see you are
still a boy, and a very wayward, unruly and unreasonable boy, at that.”

“I’ll get to be a man soon enough, professor. What’s the use to decay
before your time! Come, come! brace up, and say you will go with us to
see the bull fights. I secured seats two days ago.”

“What?”

The little man shot up from his chair, glaring at the boy.

“You dared to do such a thing without my consent?” he roared. “You
should be ashamed of yourself! How much did the seats cost?”

“One hundred reals each.”

“Whoop!” shouted the professor, staggering. “Why didn’t you buy out the
whole bull ring? Wow! One hundred reals each! Three hundred reals! How
much is that, anyway? Why didn’t you start a bull ring of your own!
Great Homer! But what made you go in for such cheap seats?” he cried,
with biting sarcasm. “Why didn’t you get a few seats set with diamonds
and stuffed with swan’s-down! Shades of Cicero! Three hundred reals! How
much is that, anyway?”

“Oh, about three doubloons.”

“Eh? Three doubloons? Why, that ain’t so bad, although it is pretty
extravagant. Hang this Spanish money! I can never get used to it,
anyway. You nearly gave me heart failure when you said you paid a
hundred reals each for the seats.”

The boys laughed heartily at the little man, who had once more collapsed
on a chair, mopping his face.

“Of course you will go now that I have the seats?” Frank said,
coaxingly.

“Well, I—er—it seems a shame to waste so much money for seats, and then
not use them.”

“And so it is. This will be the event of the season in Madrid,
professor. Señorita Zuera will be there.”

“Who is she?”

“One of the bull fighters.”

“What? Why, she must be a dreadful creature! She must be coarse and
masculine, and—er—all that. It is a disgrace! A woman bull fighter!
Think of it!”

“We have thought of it, and Ephraim and I have decided to see Señorita
Zuera. You may as well come along, professor. Madrid is talking of
nothing else save this bull fight. It is said that it will be the
greatest fight ever seen here. The bulls are unusually large and
vicious. They are from the pastures of the Duke of Veragua and the
Marquis de la Merced, and have been reared especially for the fights.”

“You seem to have obtained considerable information concerning this
wretched affair.”

“I could not help it if I kept my ears open. Look, professor,” directed
Frank, at the open window, where he could gaze into the square; “already
the people are moving toward the circus. The living tide is setting in
that direction. There will be thousands ahead of us.”

“But you have the seats,” fluttered the little man. “You have bought
them and paid for them. They can’t take them from us.”

Frank repressed a smile of satisfaction, for he saw the professor was
giving in.

“No, they cannot take them from us; but it will be all the more
comfortable for us if we go early.”

The professor looked from the window. In truth, the tide of human beings
was setting in a certain direction, and all Madrid was gayly bedecked.
Men and women wore bright colors. They were calling to each other
merrily, like a lot of children starting out for a frolic. The great
fountain in the square was splashing, and the sun was shining its
brightest. It was alluring, and Professor Scotch felt the desire to join
the throng growing on him.

The wide sidewalks were swarming, the streets were full of carriages,
throngs of students, uproariously boisterous, were pushing along after
the fashion of students everywhere, blasts from diligent horns could be
heard, together with the cracking of whips and clanking of sabres; then
came a regiment and a band of music.

That music settled the matter for the professor. It seemed to get into
his very veins. He fell to dancing, and then stopped suddenly, aware
that the boys were laughing.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I suppose we may as well go to this brutal bull
fight. It will be a disgrace, and you must both promise never to tell a
soul that we attended such a beastly and degrading exhibition. Come on.”

He was the first to get his hat and hurry from the room.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BULL FIGHT.

It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and the fights began at three. When
they reached the square it seemed that everybody was moving toward the
circus, which was located in the suburb of Salamanca, beyond the Prado,
outside the gate of Alcala.

The professor was astonished to see fine gentlemen and ladies on their
way to the circus, but he was still more astonished to see fathers and
mothers taking their children there.

That it was the greatest of all great holidays in Spain was evident by
the appearance and conversation of the people. Everybody was smiling and
laughing, bowing to friends and acquaintances, calling to each other and
seeming very happy indeed.

This feeling of gayety communicated itself to the boys. Frank and
Ephraim joked with each other; they jollied the professor, but his face
remained grave and unyielding.

It was a long walk, but the suburb was finally reached, and they
approached the circus, where an enormous crowd had gathered before the
doors.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Professor Scotch. “Has the entire city of
Madrid gone insane? See them sway and push! See them beat each other
with their hands! Hear them shout!”

“It must be a great show, or it would not excite them in this manner,
eh, professor?”

“If it were not for their magnificent cathedrals, their palaces, and
their wonderful paintings, I should say they were still an uncivilized
people,” growled the little man. “Is it possible that we must crush
ourselves through with this howling mob?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Frank, who was in a merry mood. “It is plain that
you have never attended a Thanksgiving football game in New York,
professor.”

“Never, sir, never! You know I distinctly disapprove of football, and I
did my best to suppress it at Fardale.”

“At which you made a sad failure.”

“I was succeeding very well till you came and stirred them up by leading
the team to victory against Irvington. That was an outrage; but you did
make a wonderful run with the ball. I was afraid they would catch you,
and the first thing I knew Professor Gunn was pulling at my coat, and
asking me to get down off his shoulders and not disgrace myself before
the whole academy by yelling like a crazy idiot. Think of that! And you
were responsible for it all.”

Frank laughed again, saying:

“If all I have read of bull fights is true, we’ll see something more
exciting than that here. Around this way, professor. We’ll not attempt
to force a way through that crowd. I have bought seats for the shady
side.”

“You seem to know all about it, as if you had been here before.”

“I have.”

“What? When?”

“Oh, I strolled out here yesterday with Ephraim and purchased tickets.”

“You rascal! It is getting to be an impossibility to keep track of you.”

They passed around to another entrance, where the crowd was dressed
better and was not fighting so fiercely to get in, although there was
considerable crowding.

Civil guards, with revolvers in their belts, were doing their best to
maintain order. Soldiers were coming up in bodies, escorted by bands of
music. Water venders and orange sellers filled the air with their cries.
Ticket speculators were rushing here and there through the crowd, called
by hundreds of voices and waving bunches of tickets, clasped between
their fingers, over their heads. The grandees of Spain, the aristocrats,
ministers, generals, all that was beautiful, splendid and powerful in
the great city, could be seen arriving. The uproar was deafening.

“Gol dern my hide ef I ever see anything like this air!” gasped Ephraim.
“It beats all natur, by gum!”

“It does take the biscuit,” admitted Frank. “I must confess it lays over
the rush for a football game in the United States.”

“It is terrible!” gasped the professor, who was rather pale.

At length, they succeeded in entering the circus. And then they paused
in profound amazement.

The interior of the circus was immense. As they had noticed it from the
outside, it had not seemed so large, as it was a round building, painted
yellow, very low, and having no windows. Once inside, it was seen that
it could hold twenty thousand spectators without encroachment on the
great space set aside for the performances.

The arena was large and circular. It was large enough for ten ordinary
circuses such as are seen in the United States and called immense.

Around the ring was a solid barrier, almost as high as a man’s
shoulders. On the inside was a small elevation, two feet from the
ground, to enable the toreadors to easily vault over in running to
escape from the bull.

The first barrier was followed by still another, which was higher yet,
as the bull sometimes leaped the first. Between the two barriers there
was a walk, where the toreadors promenaded before the fight, so that
they might be seen by all the people. And the personages of note, who
were allowed to break over the rules, walked about within the barriers
also.

Beyond the outer barrier were rows of stone seats, rising one above the
other, every seat numbered. Beyond the seats were boxes and a gallery.
The boxes were large enough to hold three families each.

“Come, professor,” said Frank; “we will circulate.”

“Circulate? What do you mean by that?”

“We will go around and look the place over.”

“Will they allow it?”

“I guess so; I see others are doing so. Come on.”

So they began to wander around. In a few moments they came through a
passage to a yard where there were many horses gathered.

“Ah!” exclaimed Frank. “These are the poor creatures who are to be
ripped and slaughtered by the enraged bull.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed the professor, with uplifted hands. “And
some of them are really good horses. It is beastly—murderous!”

“Don’t express your sentiments so openly,” cautioned Frank. “If you
should be overheard by a Spaniard who understood English—well, he might
be offended.”

“That’s so, b’gosh!” nodded Ephraim, “and ye can’t ’most alwus sometimes
tell what they’ll do when they’re offended. They’re liable to cut up
rusty.”

Next they visited the dark bull pens and peered through the gloom at the
savage creatures with gleaming eyes and long white horns. The sight of
those needle-pointed horns made Ephraim shiver.

“One uv them’d go through a feller mighty easy,” he observed.

Finally, they came to the principal entrance, where were displayed the
banderillas which were to be stuck into the necks of the bulls to
torture the animals and provoke them to the greatest fury.

Here they saw a number of men in very gay attire, some with one arm or
one leg gone, some hobbling about with canes, and some using crutches.

“Old soldiers, by gum!” said Ephraim. “Reg’lar old Grand Army fellers.”

“Not much,” smiled Frank. “Those are old toreadors who have been maimed
for life in bull fights.”

“Brutal! brutal!” gurgled the professor, growing black in the face. “It
makes me ill to think of it.”

Frank next bought a paper called the _Buletin de los Toros_, which
contained a programme of the day’s doings, and descriptions of the
various persons who would take prominent parts in the fights. The
description of Señorita Zuera, the wonderful female bull fighter, headed
them all, and she was said to be very handsome.

Then they wandered through many corridors and up and down numerous
stairways, surrounded all the while by a moving crowd, laughing,
shouting and making a great noise.

Finally they came out to the ring, and were ushered to their seats.

By the time they were seated the circus was full. It was a sea of heads,
hats, fans and moving hands. The crowd seemed compact, so there was not
room for any one to get out.

“We’ll have to stay here now, professor,” chuckled Frank. “There is no
escape.”

“I resign myself to fate,” said the little man, solemnly fumbling with
his red whiskers.

“Hadn’t you better tie a handkerchief over them?” suggested the
mischievous Frank.

“Eh? Over what?”

“Those whiskers. You know bright red enrages the bulls, and one of them
may crawl right up here to call on you.”

“Get out! Go on with your nonsense! But, really, why did you get seats
so near the ring? What if one of those beasts should break over among
us?”

“I was determined to be where we could see well, professor, and you will
note that I obtained seats on the shady side, among the best people. The
people over here are better dressed than those who are baking in the sun
on the other side.”

This was true. On the sunny side there were a thousand bright colors
from dresses, parasols and fans. It seemed like a gay masquerade.

On the shady side, the colors were more somber, and black predominated.

Suddenly the band began to play, and the bulls could be heard bellowing
in their dark pens.

It was so bewildering that the two American lads were somewhat giddy,
and the professor was fairly exhausted before there was a sign of the
beginning of the performance.

Above the door where the bull was to enter rose a sort of balcony,
called the Toril. On this balcony were those who were to announce the
feats.

Suddenly a great fanfare of trumpets came from this balcony.

The hour for the affair to begin had arrived!

Frank never forgot the cold thrill that ran through his veins when he
heard that blast of trumpets and knew the spectacle was about to begin.

At the sound of that blast, twenty thousand eyes were turned toward the
entrance gate, which opened immediately, admitting the toreadors in full
dress.

The band gave a burst of music as they came in, and the great throng of
people arose as one man and greeted them with a wild yell, a flourish of
hats and handkerchiefs, and a demonstration of unbounded joy and
admiration.

The espadas were in advance, and, as they were the ones who always slew
the bulls, they received the greatest attention. There were three of
them, dressed in silk, satin and velvet, the colors being orange, blue
and carnation.

These heroes of the bull ring were covered with fringes, galloons,
spangles and ornaments of gold and silver, while they wore red and
yellow capes, white silk stockings, silk girdles and fur caps.

“Gol dern my eyesight!” gurgled Ephraim Gallup, catching his breath.
“But they do look ’tarnal slick!”

“Folly! folly!” muttered the professor, in a dazed way.

Following the toreador came the banderilleros, whose duty it was to
plant the torturing barbs in the necks of the bulls. They were dressed
much like the toreadors, only not quite so gaudily.

Then came the picadores on horseback, armed with long lances, with which
they were to hold the bulls at bay. They wore embroidered jackets and
broad-brimmed, low-crowned gray hats.

A mighty roar went up from the throats of the spectators, for, riding at
the head of the picadores, was Señorita Zuera, the Queen of the Bull
Fighters.

She was more gaudily dressed than any of the others, and she rode a
really mettlesome and fiery horse.

Frank had brought his field glasses, and he immediately trained them on
this remarkable girl, for girl he saw she was.

“Is it possible!” he muttered. “I would not have believed it.”

“What is it?” fluttered the professor.

“She is young.”

“Impossible!”

“Not more than eighteen or twenty.”

“It can’t be!”

“And strikingly handsome.”

“Nonsense!”

“It is true.”

“She is made up to look young and handsome; but she must be coarse and
brutal. It cannot be otherwise.”

Frank handed Scotch the glasses.

“Take a look for yourself, and see what you think.”

The professor glued them to his eyes, adjusted them to suit his vision,
and then regarded the girl long and earnestly.

“Hum! Ha!” He coughed in a hesitating manner.

“Well, what do you think now?” asked Frank.

“She really looks young,” the man confessed, with great reluctance. “And
she is not so repulsive as I thought she would appear.”

“By gum!” gurgled Ephraim, getting his breath for the first time. “Jest
give me them air glasses. I want to git a peek at that gal.”

The professor was somewhat reluctant about surrendering the glasses, but
Ephraim obtained them and got a “peek.”

“By gum! ef she ain’t a ripper!” he exclaimed. “She jest takes the
custard, b’gosh!”

Behind the picadores came the servants, dressed in their holiday
costume. In a majestic manner all crossed the arena toward the royal
box. It was most picturesque and impressive.

In front of the royal box the entire party formed in a group and made a
salute. Then the alcalde arose and tossed the key of the bull pens into
the arena, giving a signal for the fight to begin. A gasp of intense
eagerness and expectation ran over the great throng of spectators.

A guard picked up the key and placed himself before the door, beyond
which the bull could now be heard bellowing. The espadas ran to the
first barrier, and vaulted over. The others scattered to various
positions, Señorita Zuera dashing to the farther side of the arena, and
giving an exhibition of superb horsemanship by going at full speed right
up to the barrier, where her horse whirled on its hind legs as if on a
pivot.

She received a round of applause.

Some of the picadores retired to await their turn, and then every eye
was fastened on the door through which the bull must enter.

Despite himself, Frank felt his heart thumping in his bosom as it had
never thumped before. A choking sensation came upon him, and he gasped
for breath.

“Great Scott!” he muttered, in dismay. “What is the matter with me! Is
it possible that I am going to lose my nerve?”

The roaring of the bull made the horses of the picadores tremble, and
the picadores themselves, experienced bull fighters, turned pale.

Then came another fanfare of trumpets, and the door burst open,
admitting an enormous bull, which dashed into the arena with blazing
eyes, uttering a terrible bellow.

That bellow was echoed by a tremendous shout from the throats of the
thousands of spectators. It was their greeting to the bull.

As the animal shot into the ring, a manderillo flung a barb, to which
was attached a rosette, into his shoulder. The bull shook his head, but
seemed to pass his first tormentor in a sort of blind rage.

Pausing a single moment, the bull gave another roar, and then charged at
the nearest picadore. The fellow was unable to withstand the fury of
that first rush. He tried to ward the animal off with his lance, but he
failed to plant it properly, and then man and horse went down, the horse
ripped open in a twinkling by those terrible horns.

The first blood had been spilled, and the spectators yelled with mad
delight. The picadore was down, and the crowd shrieked in a joyful way:

“He is killed! He is killed!”

One might have thought the picadore had committed a mortal offense
against every man, woman and child present, and they were rejoicing to
see him justly punished.

But the bull seemed satisfied with its work on the horse, and it whirled
to charge on the next picadore, leaving the fallen one to scramble up
and hastily limp away toward the barrier, which he lost no time in
placing between himself and another attack.

The second picadore was no less fortunate than the first, and one of the
bull’s horns opened a great gash in the horse’s breast, from which a
torrent of blood issued.

The picadore was frightened, lost his head, leaped from the saddle, and
fled for the barrier.

The crowd rose up and howled its derision and wrath.

“Coward!” shrieked the great throng. “Lazy creature! Wretch! Impostor!
Go hide! Never dare show yourself again!”

Over the barrier leaped the fellow, and Frank, who was near at hand, saw
he was as pale as a ghost and literally shaking with terror.

Perhaps that picadore had been in a dozen bull fights before, and never
quailed or lost his nerve for a moment; but this time he was unmanned in
a twinkling, as an actor is sometimes overcome by stage fright when such
a thing seems the least likely to happen.

The bull did not pursue the wounded horse, which leaped away, spurting
blood at every jump. No; the furious animal charged a third picadore,
and it seemed that nothing could stop its rush, for the horse swerved
just as the fellow tried to plant his lance, and once more the bull did
its dreadful work.

Then, with a wild bellow of satisfaction and defiance, the animal ran
into the middle of the arena and stopped, its horns dripping crimson,
its eyes full of fiendish fury.

Behind the bull lay two dying horses, struggling in their blood, their
bodies ripped open. Another horse was staggering around the arena, blood
gushing from the terrible wound in its breast.

And now the spectators went wild. They leaped to their feet and howled
their delight, waving hats, parasols, fans and papers in the air. The
fight had begun to their entire satisfaction.

Frank was both horrified and fascinated. He had felt himself turn
ghastly pale and sicken, and yet he was chained to his seat, and his
eyes had watched every movement of the bull. At his side he heard
Ephraim Gallup gasping for breath. When the bull rushed to the center of
the ring and stopped the boy from Vermont groaned:

“I wish I was aout uv this! By gum! I’d give a dollar ef I was to hum on
the farm!”

Professor Scotch was so overcome that he could not speak. He was choking
and swallowing in a convulsive way.

“Look!” howled the crowd. “The banderilleros! _Bueno! Brava!_”

Several men rushed at the bull and planted darts in his neck and
shoulders. He charged them, and they escaped one after the other. They
were very agile and daring.

Then came others just when the bull seemed infuriated beyond measure.
They flaunted scarlet cloths in the animal’s face, provoking him still
more. He charged one after the other, and they dodged and avoided him,
flying from him, and then turning to come back and torment him again.

Sometimes the bull would pursue one of them to the barrier, and the
fellow would barely vault over in time to escape those bloody horns. The
bull would strike its head with terrible force against the barrier,
kick, bellow, roar and then charge on the dead horses.

Then the now utterly infuriated bull saw Señorita Zuera, who was calmly
sitting in the saddle, awaiting the assault.

With lowered head and smoking nostrils, the blood-dripping animal
charged straight for the girl, and another wild and terrible shout went
up from the throats of the spectators.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XIX.

TO THE RESCUE.

Frank felt himself turn cold from head to feet. Up to this moment
nothing of flesh and blood had seemed able to withstand the fury of the
bull’s charge.

The girl did not quail. With her lance in position, she calmly awaited
the onset.

Frank’s hands shook as he held the glasses to his eyes. And then, in
astonishment and admiration, he gasped:

“She has not paled! She smiles!”

He knew that the lance in the girl’s hand could not greatly harm the
bull. It had a sharp point, but it was so made that it could not
penetrate very deeply. And yet she was to defend herself with such an
instrument!

The horse did not swerve, and the girl succeeded in planting the point
of her lance properly. Even though she was successful in this, Frank
looked to see her hurled from the saddle.

No! She sat there like a rooted tree, and with her lance she held the
bull at bay. It was a marvel of strength and science. The animal
bellowed and struggled to get at the horse, but the lance held him off.

Then the crowd went wild again. They laughed, they yelled, they clapped
their hands with delight.

“It is wonderful!” muttered Frank, still watching the girl through his
glasses. “How she does it I cannot tell. And she smiles again!”

“Gol derned ef she ain’t a corker!” came admiringly from Ephraim. “It’s
wu’th comin’ jest to see her do that air little trick.”

At last, finding all his efforts in vain, the bull turned and rushed
away. In a twinkling the banderilleros were around him, and again those
maddening darts were planted in his neck and shoulders.

As he felt the fourth dart, the bull uttered a terrible roar, and
charged after one of the fleeing men. The fellow was but a short
distance in advance of those crimson horns, and he was running for his
life.

The barrier was reached, and the man made the leap, but the bull leaped
with him, and both went over into the walk between the two barriers.

Again were the spectators given an opportunity to shriek:

“He is killed! He is killed!”

It seemed that the bull had fallen upon the man, but such was not the
case, and the banderillero scrambled to his feet and was dragged over
the second barrier in time to escape death on those frightful horns.

Frank was one who helped drag the fellow over the high barrier, and he
felt the man quivering with a great terror. He looked in the
banderillero’s face and then uttered an exclamation of surprise, for it
was the man with the scar, whom he had knocked down only some hours
before. He had heard the fellow called Gonzalez by a companion who ran
to his assistance.

Gonzalez recognized the boy, uttered a snarl, and tore away.

“Cowardly American!” he grated, in Spanish. “Do you think I fear the
bull? Bah! I spit on the bull, as Spain spits on the United States.”

“And then, if you remained within reach of the bull, he would do you up
just about as quickly as the United Stales would do up Spain,” retorted
the boy, who felt his patriotic blood stirred.

“I have not forgotten that you struck me,” hissed the scar-faced fellow.
“We shall meet again.”

“Very good. All I ask is that you do not come upon me when my back is
turned.”

There was such an uproar that these words between the man and boy were
not heard by the spectators. The bull was now running back and forward
in the walk, beaten by sticks and fists. Gonzalez sprang into the walk,
just as the bull, finding an open door, darted into the ring again.

The door was closed, and then all the men in the arena dashed at the
bull once more. One passed behind him, giving his tail a pull, one
dropped a scarlet cloth over the animal’s horns, another snatched a
rosette from the shaft of a dart, and still another allowed the bull to
charge, planted a pole in the ground, vaulted into the air, and let the
creature pass beneath him.

It was amazing, bewildering, marvelous. Frank felt his blood stirred by
the wonderful feats. He had been sickened by the spectacle a few moments
before, so that there was a dreadful nausea at his stomach, but now he
was quivering with satisfaction and fascinated by what he saw.

All these tricks were accomplished as if the men were frolicking with a
harmless lamb. They laughed and shouted like children at play, and the
audience, fairly carried away with enthusiasm, gave them round after
round of applause.

Then the trumpets sounded again, and the bull suddenly found himself
deserted, much to his apparent astonishment. All the bull’s late
tormentors had retreated at the signal.

The gate opened again, and one of the fighters came forward, sword in
hand. The spectators knew it was the crisis of the drama, the bull was
to die.

“Villasca—Antonio Villasca! Bravo! bravo!” they shouted.

He bowed, smiling all around. He was cool and confident, as if quite
certain of accomplishing, without difficulty, the momentous task before
him.

Zuera remained in the ring. She had repulsed the bull, and she had a
right to remain there to the death.

The band played a jingling, lively piece, and Villasca advanced with a
springy step toward the bull.

The animal saw him. It pawed the ground and uttered a roar; its tail
arose in the air, and then, with lowered head, it charged.

Villasca stood his ground, aiming with his sword, and then, when the
bull was right upon him, seeing he could not get in a fatal stroke, he
moved aside with a single step.

The dripping horns of the bull grazed his hip, but he was unharmed.

The crowd shrieked its delight, clapping hands and laughing.

“Good Villasca! Brave Villasca! Look at him! He did not even turn pale!
He will kill the bull with the first stroke! Bravo! bravo!”

Like a cat, the bull whirled, furious at being tricked in such a manner.
In a twinkling, the animal charged again, and this time Villasca made a
greater exertion in getting out of the way, but escaped unharmed again.

However, he had planted his sword, and the bull recovered after passing,
turning about with marvelous adroitness. Like a panther, the creature
rushed again.

This time, with a hasty aim, Villasca struck with his gleaming sword.

He failed!

Planting his sword awkwardly, he simply succeeded in wounding the bull.
The sword fell from his hand, and he barely saved himself by a great
leap.

What a howl of rage went up from the spectators. It seemed that the
laughing, applauding multitude had been turned, in a twinkling, into one
vast body of furious animals. Everybody seemed to stand up, screaming
and hurling abuse at the man they had applauded a few moments before.
Every one forgot that Villasca had killed a score of savage bulls in
other fights. He had failed now; and he failed awkwardly. That was
enough.

“Assassin! Impostor! Go hide yourself! Let yourself be killed!”

They reviled him, they spat at him, they threw orange peel and stubs of
cigars at him. It seemed that they would have torn him limb from limb if
they could have placed their hands on him.

But the bull did not hesitate. Once more he charged after the
discomfited espada.

Villasca knew that he must kill the bull, or his bull fighting days
would be over. Every paper in Madrid would revile him if he failed, and
he made an effort to recover his sword. He tried to do it adroitly,
laughing in the face of the bull.

Again he failed. One of those sharp horns cut his leg, leaving a streak
of red. He was wounded! Blood was flowing down his leg!

Then the mad mob called down blessings on the bull, imploring him to
kill the wretch; and Villasca, who was not seriously wounded, grew
confused, dodged, and fell to the ground.

There was a wild cry, and across the arena dashed Señorita Zuera, going
to the rescue. She did not hesitate, but rode between the bull and the
fallen espada.

Villasca scrambled up and darted away a short distance, where he halted
in a manner that showed how confused he was.

Zuera had saved him, but she was in danger. The horse could not get out
of the way, and the bull struck the creature.

Down went horse and rider in a heap!

How the crowd shrieked! A great yell of mingled terror and delight went
up.

“The coward! He has deserted her! She will be killed!”

She seemed stunned, for she did not attempt to arise. The bull tore the
horse, and then turned his attention to the girl.

“Great Scott!” cried Frank. “Are they all benumbed! Will they let her be
killed before their very eyes!”

Scarcely had the last words left his lips when he sprang up, leaped into
the ring, and darted to the rescue of the helpless girl.

Professor Scotch tried to grasp and hold the excited lad, but failed.
With one bound, Frank sailed over the heads of those near him and
reached the first barrier, another bound took him into the ring, and he
snatched a scarlet cloth from the hands of a hesitating banderillero.
Waving this cloth, he dashed straight toward the raging bull.

Cries of wonder came from the spectators. Not one of all the Spaniards
who had paid the price of admission would have thought to go to the
rescue of the girl. They would not have interfered if she had been
killed by slow torture.

Frank saw nothing but the bull and the imperiled girl. He did not see
other persons coming to the rescue, the banderilleros and picadores. His
one thought was to divert the attention of the bull from the fallen
girl.

Being a swift runner, he reached the bull in a moment, flaunted the
cloth in its face, and turned its attention to himself.

The bull hesitated. In that moment, Frank saw the espada’s sword at his
feet, and he snatched it up.

Then the bull charged.

The boy had seen Villasca attempt to kill the bull, and he seemed to
understand how it should be done. Still, he had not time for thought,
and what he did was done with the rapidity of instinct.

He dropped the cloth, aimed with the sword, and struck the bull fairly
in the neck. He felt the weapon plunge into the mad animal, and leaped
aside at the same instant.

The bull staggered, a torrent of blood sprang from its mouth, and then
it fell as if struck by lightning!

For a single instant it seemed that the crowd could not realize what had
happened, and then, as they saw the bull was really dead, they gave a
burst of tempestuous applause, such as had not before been heard that
day.

“Beautiful boy! You angel! God bless you! God bless you!”

They were crazed with delight and admiration. Never before had such a
thing happened in a Madrid bull ring. It was a marvel.

Frank could scarcely realize that he had accomplished this wonderful
feat. With the bloody sword in his hand, he stood looking down at the
bull in a dazed way. To the crowd it seemed that he was quite cool, and
that he had been quite cool and confident all the time.

Seeing there was no further danger from the bull, he returned to
Señorita Zuera.

She was on her feet, gazing at him in a curious, wondering way. He took
off his hat and bowed very low to her, saying, in Spanish:

“I trust you are not harmed, señorita?”

“Not at all,” she answered, in a musical tone of voice. “I was stunned
for a moment, and I should have been killed but for you.”

He bowed again.

“Then I am happy in having been able to serve you, señorita.”

She looked at him admiringly, and now he saw that she was, indeed, young
and handsome. There was no paint or powder on her face. Her cheeks did
not need paint, for they were tinted with the blush of perfect health,
while her skin seemed smooth as marble and soft as silk. Her hair and
eyes were dark. She had delicate, arching eyebrows, long silken
eyelashes, red lips, milk-white teeth, and a throat that was smooth and
white as alabaster.

There was something fascinating and dashing about her beauty, something
that affected him like wine in his veins.

“You have gotten yourself into trouble, señor,” she said. “Villasca is
furious; I can see that.”

Indeed, the unlucky espada was in a great rage. He was gnashing his
teeth and glaring at the boy, muttering fierce and bitter curses. He
realized that he had been disgraced forever by his own cowardice and
confusion, and this foreign lad had become a hero in the eyes of the
spectators. How he hated Frank Merriwell! He swore to have the boy’s
life—to drive a dagger through his heart.

And now the boy and girl were surrounded by toreadors and the servants
of the bull ring. Frank saw Gonzalez scowling blackly. The fellow seemed
longing to rush upon the lad. Indeed, he was speaking swiftly to another
man at his side, and both were regarding the boy with murderous looks.

Indeed, it seemed that all those men were ready to fling themselves on
the unknown slayer of the bull and kill him on the spot. But the
blood-dripping sword was still in Frank’s hand, and they had seen him do
execution with it. They feared that sword.

Zuera seemed to read the thoughts expressed on their faces. She stepped
swiftly to Frank’s side, saying, softly:

“Come away, señor. You are in danger. Come with me.”

They passed through the circle and walked toward the box of the alcalde.
When the spectators saw them thus, another great cheer went up.

“Beautiful boy!” screamed the spectators. “He has Villasca’s sword! Keep
it! keep it! He is a great espada!”

And then, in their wild enthusiasm, the crowd began to fling presents to
Frank—hats, canes, flowers, cigars, money, anything, in fact, that their
hands found.

“Take them,” directed Zuera—“take them and bow! The people will be
offended if you do not.”

So Frank picked up the money, the cigars and the flowers. The money and
cigars he put in his pockets. Zuera caught up the hats and tossed them
back to their owners, laughing merrily and calling to each one. Frank
bowed his thanks, feeling his face flushing and his heart leaping. It is
not strange that he was somewhat bewildered, for his was an experience
such as never before befell an American youth.

At last they came to the box of the alcalde, and Frank saw the
magistrate and several personages of authority in a most excited
discussion. At first the boy was not noticed, but the attention of the
chief magistrate was called to him after a time. The dignitary turned
and glared down at the lad, and a sudden hush settled over the vast
throng of spectators.

“Boy, who are you?”

“I am Frank Merriwell, señor.”

“English?”

“No, señor, American.”

Frank uttered the words distinctly, with a feeling of pride, and yet not
in an offensive or boasting manner.

Zuera gave a little exclamation of astonishment and alarm, and a hoarse
murmur rang over the throng of spectators.

Frank knew very well that he was in the heart of a country inclined to
be hostile to the United States and friendly toward England, but the boy
would have scorned to save himself from any peril by denying his
nationality and proclaiming himself something that he was not.

There was another excited discussion within the alcalde’s box, and then
the magistrate demanded:

“Do you know you have committed a grave offense by entering the bull
ring without permission during a fight, Señor Merriwell?”

“I was not aware of it, señor,” answered the lad, calmly. “But had I
known it was an offense punishable by imprisonment or death, I could not
have hesitated when I saw a lady in danger.”

This answer produced a sensation. There were those among the spectators
who started to cheer, while others hissed. Great excitement ensued.
Somebody shouted:

“Brave American!”

Then there was a commotion, and general riot seemed about to break out.
Two men were seen fighting; others joined in the battle. Thousands of
spectators shouted and screamed.

Frank remained perfectly calm. Indeed, his calmness was astonishing to
himself.

The alcalde turned to the others in the box. He was assailed on all
sides by excited gentlemen. Plainly some were greatly angered, while
others were defending the young American.

Ephraim Gallup arose and shouted:

“Yeou’re all right, Frank, and I’ll stand by ye till the caows come hum,
b’gosh! I’m comin’ right down there.”

Professor Scotch caught hold of the excited Yankee boy and pulled him
back into the seat, clinging to him in a frantic manner.

“I tell yeou I’m goin’ daown and back him up!” roared Ephraim, smiting
one clinched hand into the open palm of the other. “He’s a jim-cuckoo,
that’s what he is.”

“Do not leave me!” implored the professor. “I shall be murdered by these
creatures! They have gone mad!”

“But I tell yeou I’m going to back him up. Come on, professor, we’ll
both go daown.”

Frank, however, motioned for Ephraim to remain in his seat, and the
professor succeeded in persuading the excited lad to do so.

The civil guards came in and subdued the riot among the spectators.

When she could be heard, Señorita Zuera addressed the alcalde.

“It is true that I should have been killed by the bull if this brave
youth had not come to my rescue,” she declared. “I entreat pardon for
him.”

The alcalde frowned.

“That is not for me to grant, señorita,” he said.

Then he waved his hand, and several of the civil guards rushed into the
arena. They placed themselves about Frank Merriwell, and the boy was
marched off, a captive, while the spectators howled their applause or
anger.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XX.

AFTER THE FIGHT.

As soon as they could escape, Professor Scotch and Ephraim Gallup left
the bull ring. They tried to discover where Frank had been taken, but
were unsuccessful. They were met with black looks and were given scant
courtesy. Some of whom they sought information declared that the boy
would be imprisoned.

As they marched back to the hotel Ephraim raged and raved as if he had
quite lost his head. He vowed that Frank should have a square deal. He
vowed that the United States would wipe Spain off the face of the earth
if Frank were harmed. He was stared at in astonishment by the wondering
people they passed. It was well for him that English was not understood
by those Spaniards who overheard him. It is certain that he would have
been arrested and imprisoned, if nothing more serious had happened to
him.

The professor was on the verge of tears.

“It’s all that daring boy’s fault!” he declared. “He is continually
getting into scrapes! Oh, my! oh, my! What shall we do?”

“Do?” cried Ephraim. “Why, we’ll apply to the United States Consul. By
chaowder! we’ll find aout ef a citizen uv the United States can be put
inter prison like a caow in a pound jest because he saved the life uv a
gal!”

“I’m afraid——”

“Well, I ain’t, b’gosh! We was fools to come inter this air heathen
country; but, naow I’m here, I ain’t afraid uv anything!”

“Be careful! We may get into trouble. Look out what you say.”

“Jee thutter! I’m a Yank, an’ I’m a Yank to the backbone! I won’t be
muzzled!”

“But it is best to be cautious. If Frank had said he was English——”

“I’d jumped him, an’ I’d never had anything to do with him arterward.
The English may be all right; but that ain’t any reason why a Yankee
should be ashamed to say what he is. You’d never ketch an Englishman
sayin’ he was anything else, by gum! They’re praoud because they’re
English, but there ain’t one uv them that’s a darn bit praouder uv it
than I be because I’m a Yankee.”

“Policy, my boy——”

“Policy be gol derned!”

“You know the English say that Americans boast too much.”

“Don’t keer ef they do! I’ve seen some Englishmen in America that didn’t
do a thing but brag.”

“How did you like it?”

“Why, I thought they was fools!”

“Well, then, you should see what is thought of an American who goes
abroad and proclaims himself boastfully everywhere. He makes a fool of
himself, just as the boasting Englishman in America does.”

“B’gosh! I never thought uv that.”

“You see that it is true?”

“Wal,” drawled Ephraim, rather reluctantly, “I s’pose it is.”

“It is, certainly. It would be well for the American if he would learn a
little reserve from his English cousin. There is a beautiful trick of
keeping one’s mouth closed.”

Ephraim thought this over a minute, and then he burst out:

“That’s all right; but when I’m asked ef I’m English, I’m goin’ to say,
‘Not by a dern sight! I’m Yankee clean to the bone, an’ don’t ye forgit
it!’ Ef Frank Merriwell had said he was English when they asked him——Oh,
say! it’s no use to talk abaout that! I know Frank! He’s got Yankee
Doodle and Hail Columby blood runnin’ in ev’ry vein.”

“But we are in a country that entertains a hostile feeling toward the
United States just at present, and the people here are very
fiery-tempered and dangerous. There is such a thing as diplomacy, and——”

“Hang diplomicy ef a feller’s got ter have it at ther cost uv his honor.
Frank done right, an’ I’ll back him up.”

The professor was in despair.

“You do not seem to comprehend that we may not have a chance to back him
up. He may be carried off and imprisoned, and we may never see him
again. We may be warned to get out of the country—or we may be
arrested.”

Scotch gasped out the final words in a manner that showed he was alarmed
beyond measure by what had taken place. It was with no small difficulty
that Ephraim repressed a feeling of contempt for the agitated little
man.

The blood of the boy from Vermont was thoroughly aroused, and, boylike,
he could not be easily suppressed. His respect, admiration and love for
Frank were unbounded. To him Frank’s arrest by the civil guards seemed
one of the greatest outrages ever committed.

To the professor it also seemed an outrage, but the little man dared not
express himself after the manner of the boy. Scotch, who was naturally
timid, had read much of the Spaniards, and he feared them. What he had
seen that day caused him to fear them still more.

“Be quiet—do be quiet!” he urged, as Ephraim continued to express his
feelings. “If some one should hear you—some one who understood English!”

“Wal, what ef they did?”

“They are a dreadful people! Think how they delight in shedding blood!
Think of the spectacle we witnessed this day! Why, they seem to revel in
gore. Women and children laugh and shout to see horses ripped open! And
their delight seemed the greatest when it appeared that the bull had
killed one of his tormentors, or was about to do so.”

“Wal,” confessed Ephraim, “I be hung ef I didn’t feel ez ef I’d kinder
like ter see ther critter sail in and kill ther hull gang.”

“But your feeling was entirely different from theirs. You felt that way
because they were torturing the animal—because it seemed brutal to you,
and it enraged you. The Spaniards felt that it would be a satisfaction
to see some of the poor wretches killed because they had bungled in
their acts. It was not from a feeling of sympathy for the bull or the
poor horses.”

Ephraim knew this was true, and he felt a great contempt for the
Spaniards because of it.

“At skewl,” he said, “it alwus turned aout that the biggest bully was
the biggest coward. Jest as long as he felt sure he could lick everybody
else he seemed gol dern brave, but when he found anybody else could lick
him and dast stan’ up to him, he squelched right daown. The Spanish act
to me like a nation uv bullies. They’ve got the swelled head, an’ they
think they kin lick everybody else; but when they find aout diffrunt,
they’ll squelch mighty sudden.”

The professor shook his head.

“I am not so sure of that. With all their bullying propensities, they
are very proud, and I fancy they are a people who would rather die
fighting than give up. They cannot be easily conquered.”

“Neither kin a bully; but once yeou git him daown, he’s daown for good.”

“Which is not at all true with the Spanish. Although they may play the
bully, they do not like to stay down when they have been beaten.”

“Wal, I don’t keer a gol dern abaout that. All I want is for ’em to let
up on Frank, and let up sudden.”

This discussion continued all the way back to the hotel. Ephraim urged
the professor to do something at once, but Scotch declared that he must
have time to think it over, and they went to their room.

When they arrived there, they met a great surprise.

Frank Merriwell was there, seated in an easy-chair, calmly looking over
the _Buletin de los Toros_!

Both Ephraim and the professor came near fainting. They stopped in the
doorway and stared, open-mouthed, at the boy.

“Come in,” called Frank, cheerfully. “I trust you have enjoyed
yourselves very much?”

“Whoop!” shouted the boy from Vermont. “It’s him!”

“It is!” roared the professor, delightedly. “It certainly is!”

Ephraim lunged forward and caught the hand of his companion and friend,
giving it a squeeze that flattened Frank’s fingers.

“Hang my eyesight!” he cried. “We never expected to find yeou here!”

“We thought they had carried you to prison,” said Scotch.

Frank laughed.

“And so they might but for Señorita Zuera,” he declared. “She interceded
for me, declaring that I had saved her life, and I was released on one
condition.”

“What was that?”

“That I would leave the country immediately.”

“We can’t leave it any too quick to suit me, b’gosh!” cried Ephraim.

“We will start immediately—at once,” fluttered the professor.

Finding Frank was at liberty, Ephraim seemed quite changed. He declared
that they would be foolish to remain where they were in danger of being
stabbed in the back at any time. Once more his former fear of the
Spaniards came over him, and the professor was astonished by his altered
manner and language.

“Oh, there is no great rush,” smiled Frank. “They finally gave me
forty-eight hours in which to leave Madrid.”

“It’s too much,” declared Professor Scotch. “We will go as soon as we
can get a train.”

“That will not be to-night.”

“Is there no train out of Madrid to-night?”

“Oh, yes; but we have no time to bundle up and rush away on it. Besides
that, I want a good night’s rest. We have done nothing but hustle around
since coming here, and I mean to be fresh when we start out.”

The professor was eager to get away, but Frank would not stir, and the
professor found it quite useless to argue.

“Well,” he sighed, “I suppose you will stay, and the chances are that
you will get into some other scrape before I can get you away.”

“Ah!” cried Ephraim; “that was a great trick yeou done, Frank! Haow in
the world did you ever kill that bull with one jab?”

“It was an accident,” was the modest reply. “I had to do something, and
I caught up the sword to defend myself. When the bull rushed at me, I
drove the sword for his neck, and I happened to hit the vital spot. A
fortunate accident, that’s all.”

“It was nerve and skill, b’gosh!” cried the lad from Vermont. “Can’t
make me b’lieve it was any accident.”

There came a knock at the door. The professor and Ephraim looked at each
other in alarm.

“I told you!” gasped the little man. “They’ve come to arrest you now!”

“Ephraim, open the door,” directed Frank.

Ephraim suddenly braced up, strode across the room and flung open the
door.

Señorita Zuera stood there!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXI.

ZUERA.

She came in quickly, motioning for Ephraim to close the door behind her.
Then she hurried to Frank, caught his hand, bent and kissed it,
murmuring, in Spanish:

“My preserver! Brave American!”

Frank felt the hot blood rush into his face. He drew his hand away
swiftly but gently.

“Señorita!” he exclaimed.

She turned her dark eyes up to his. He saw the glow of admiration deep
in their ebon depths.

“Ah, but you are brave, señor!” she half whispered, half murmured. “But
you must have fought the bulls before?”

“Never.”

“Then it is wonderful!”

“I never saw a bull fight before.”

“Wonderful!”

She still wore the gay dress of the bull ring. Over this she had thrown
a cloak. As he looked at her now he wondered more than ever that this
beautiful girl, who appeared so refined and gentle, should be the “Queen
of the Bull Fighters.”

She seemed to read his thoughts, and her face, which had been somewhat
pale on entering, slowly became crimson, while the long, dark lashes
drooped over those eyes of pellucid black.

“Do not look at me like that!” she entreated. “I know it must seem
strange to you—an American. My father was a bull fighter, and, when he
was crippled, he taught me to become a picadore. Thus I have been able
to support him. He is dead now, and I am alone. I must live. With one
exception, I am the only female bull fighter in Spain. It pays so very
well that I have thought I might soon be able to leave the ring
forever.”

“If you are not killed.”

“To-day came my first accident. But for you the bull must have finished
me. Villasca lost his head; Barbastro would not come to my aid. I was
stunned. Then you came.”

“Who is Barbastro?”

“He is one of the espadas.”

“Why wouldn’t he come to your rescue?”

“He hates me.”

“Hates you?”

“Yes, señor.”

“Such a thing seems incomprehensible. Why does he hate you?”

She hesitated a moment, and then, with a sudden burst of confidence, she
explained:

“He insulted me once, señor, and I cut him across the face with a whip.
He has told me often that he hoped I might be killed by one of the
bulls. He has said he would not lift a hand to save me.”

“The wretch!” cried Frank, in indignation. “I wondered that some one did
not rush to your assistance.”

“Barbastro was the one who should have done so, and now you know why he
did not.”

The hot blood was in her face. It had cost her something to tell this.

“But it is not Barbastro you have to fear, señor,” she went on, swiftly.
“I came here to warn you.”

“Of whom?”

“Villasca.”

“Ah!”

“He has sworn to kill you.”

The professor had been listening. He understood Spanish very well, and
now he cried:

“I told you, Frank! We should get out of Madrid at once.”

Frank motioned for him to be silent.

“I presume Villasca is enraged because I was fortunate in saving
you—because I happened to kill the bull when he failed.”

“That is one reason; but there is another.”

“Another?”

“Yes, señor.”

“What?”

Again she hesitated. Now she was more than ever confused. She fastened
her eyes on the floor, and her little foot tapped the carpet nervously.

“I beg your pardon, señorita,” said the boy, with swift intuition. “I
fear I have no right to question you so closely. I did not know.”

“It is right,” came hastily from her lips. “You should know, and so I
must tell you. You will better understand your peril.”

Still she hesitated, seeming to find it an awkward subject to approach.

Ephraim began to grin. Whistling softly, he walked to the window and
looked out. The sun was setting, and twilight was coming on in the
square below. Lights were twinkling. Throngs of people were returning
slowly and soberly from the bull fights. It seemed that they had spent
all their enthusiasm. They were not calling to each other, and there was
no sound of merry laughter. It seemed an entirely different crowd from
the hilarious throng that had rushed to the fights some hours before.

After some moments of confusion, Zuera spoke:

“Señor, it is like this: Villasca has been much with me since Señor
Menandez was forced to fly from the country.”

“Señor Menandez? You must understand that I do not know all these people
who are known to you.”

She made a gesture that seemed to say she was resolved to tell him
everything.

“Raphael Menandez is my lover,” came softly from her lips. “He is very
handsome, but he is a revolutionist, and he was for giving up Cuba. He
was accused of inciting the people to revolt. The queen issued an order
for his arrest and imprisonment; but he heard of it—he was informed by
friends—and he fled from the country. Since then Señor Villasca has
sought to take his place.”

Frank was relieved to learn that this girl had a lover. A romance
interested him, and Señorita Zuera had a romance. He realized that he
had not even asked her to sit down, and he did so without delay, but she
declined, saying she could not stop.

“Villasca is furiously jealous,” she declared. “He followed me here. At
this minute he may be watching in the square below.”

She approached the window, and peered forth cautiously. After some
moments she exclaimed:

“Yes, señor—there he is—there by the fountain! I knew he had followed
me. Still I do not think he saw me enter the hotel.”

“The rascal!” exclaimed Frank, hotly. “Can it be that he meditates doing
you some harm? If I thought he did——”

“No, no—not that! He will not harm me, for he knows I carry a dagger,
and I would not hesitate to strike. It is you, señor—he will try to kill
you! You are an American, and Antonio Villasca would find a way to
escape justice. He would be shielded. You must leave Madrid!”

“I told you! I told you!” broke in Professor Scotch. “We will leave
Madrid this very night, señorita.”

“If you leave Madrid to-night, you will go alone,” came quietly from
Frank’s lips. “I do not fancy running away like a frightened hare. I
have decided to remain in this city as long as I am permitted to stay
here by the government.”

The little man wrung his hands.

“When I get you back to the United States I shall throw up my job as
your guardian!” he cried.

Frank smiled.

“You will change your mind, professor. You know it is necessary for me
to have some sort of a guardian, and you come in very handy. We will
talk this matter over later.”

Frank had looked from the window and observed Villasca lounging by the
fountain in the square. He was watching the hotel with the eye of a
hawk.

“You do not fear Villasca?” said Zuera.

“Not at all,” was the calm answer, in which there was not the least sign
of boasting.

“I believe you!” she cried. “You did not fear the bull! And you killed
him with the first stroke! It was beautiful! I had thought the Americans
all cowards—now I know there is one who is brave—very brave!”

“Thank you,” he bowed. “There are others. Do you know where Señor
Menandez is at the present time?”

“In England. He is going to the United States. His own country has made
him an outcast, and he will labor for Cuba.”

“And was he also a bull fighter?”

“Oh, no, señor! Had he cared to enter the fights, he would have become
the greatest espada in Spain.”

“Do you expect to join him?”

“Some time, señor.”

“And Villasca——”

An expression of scorn came to her face.

“Bah!” she cried, with an outflinging of one hand. “Never need he speak
to me again! I shall have nothing to say to him. He is in disgrace.
Señor Rodriguez, who manages the bull fights, has told Villasca that he
would have him no more.”

“And he will be all the more desperate because of that. Señorita,
something tells me that you have cause to look out for Villasca. If he
is really in love with you, he may go to desperate straits. You need a
protector. Señor Menandez should be here.”

“Do not fear for me, but look out for yourself, Señor Merriwell. I have
warned you, and now I will go.”

Still she seemed reluctant to leave him. Her eyes smiled up into his,
and he thought he had never before seen such wonderful eyes. At last,
with a sudden impulse, she gave him her hand. Then she turned to go.

As Frank was accompanying her to the door, there came a sudden, sharp
knock.

Zuera stopped abruptly, betraying agitation. Her hand dropped on Frank’s
arm.

“If it should be Villasca!” she whispered.

“He will meet with a warm reception,” said the boy, as he strode toward
the door, which he unhesitatingly flung open.

A small man, in plain clothes, stood at the door. He was a stranger to
Frank, but Zuera recognized him instantly.

“Señor Rodriguez!” she exclaimed, in great surprise.

“Señorita Zuera!” cried the man, with an astonished lifting of the
eyebrows.

Plainly he had not expected to see her there.

Frank looked from one to the other, and then, bowing politely, he
invited the man to enter. The boy was still ready to defend Zuera if
needs be, but something told him it was not necessary.

Rodriguez came in, hat in hand. His eyes were keen and restless, his
step brisk, and his manner that of a man of business.

“I hardly thought to find you here, señorita,” he said.

“And I did not fancy I should meet you here, señor,” she returned, with
a faint smile. “I came to express my thanks to the brave young
American.”

“Very good. I came to express my admiration of his skill, and to make
him a business proposition.”

Frank pricked up his ears. Just what did the man mean?

“Will you be seated, señor?” and the lad motioned toward a chair.

“Señorita Zuera is standing,” said the little Spaniard, with a polite
bow. “I thank you.”

“I am going, Señor Rodriguez,” assured the girl.

“Not because I have come. Wait, señorita. You saw it all. My business
with Señor Merriwell is not of a private nature, and I should prefer
that you were present when I make him the proposal. Will you sit down
and wait?”

She hesitated, and then, seeing that he really meant it, returned to a
chair and sat down.

Ephraim Gallup, who did not understand Spanish, was bewildered. He
wondered what it meant. He had prepared to fight when Rodriguez
appeared, and he seemed somewhat disappointed now that there seemed no
prospect of an encounter.

“Kinder guess he’s here to tell us to git aout uv taown in a hurry,”
muttered the Vermonter. “Can’t hurry too much to suit me, b’gosh! I
ain’t stuck on this air taown.”

Rodriguez was indeed a man of business. He did not beat around the bush,
but he came at once to the point.

“Señor Merriwell,” he said, “I saw you kill the bull. It was most
beautifully done. I was not aware that bull fighters were raised in
America, but it was plain to me that you have had experience in the art.
To-day I lost one of my espadas. Villasca’s place must be filled for the
fights that are to come. I am sure you would be a great attraction. What
you did to-day is known all over Madrid, and the papers will spread the
report all over Spain. There will be great curiosity to see you. I will
engage you to fill Villasca’s place.”

Frank was thoroughly astonished. In a moment he fell to laughing.

“It is impossible, señor,” he declared. “I have been warned to leave
Madrid within forty-eight hours.”

“That is nothing. I can attend to that, and I will arrange it so you
need not go. It will pay you to remain.”

“But I am not a professional bull fighter.”

Rodriguez looked as if inclined to be doubtful.

“You are skillful. You pierced the bull’s heart with a single stroke.
Never have I seen it done more handsomely.”

“It was an accident.”

“You are far too modest, señor. Such accidents do not happen. You stood
your ground like a veteran, and it was plain you felt your ability to
kill the bull. If you had not killed him with that stroke, he must have
killed you.”

“It was my luck. In a tight place, my luck never fails me. That is all.”

“Ah, you Americans! I have been led to believe you were all boasters. It
is not true. Señor, I beg you to consider. You are to name your price.”

“And I assure you that never before in all my life have I killed a
bull.”

“Then how dared you enter the ring and place yourself before the bull
to-day? Can you answer me that?”

“I did not pause to consider the danger, Señor Rodriguez. I saw a girl
in deadly peril, and I hastened to her rescue. I could not help doing
so. The impulse came upon me too strongly to be resisted. It was the
most natural thing in the world to do.”

The manager of the circus seemed unable to believe that any one who knew
nothing of bull fighting would dare do what Frank Merriwell had done
that day, even though it were in defense of a girl who was in deadly
peril. He was much too polite, however, to openly say as much.

“It is plain that you must swiftly become a skillful bull fighter,” he
declared. “I will give you an opportunity. You are to name your price.”

Frank saw that a flat refusal was the only thing that would turn the man
away.

“Señor Rodriguez,” he said, “you have not money enough in Madrid to
purchase my services, even though I was certain I would be successful at
it. I am an American, and Americans do not fancy bull fighting. I
attended the fight to-day out of curiosity—nothing more. I do not care
to see another bull fight. To your people it is a pleasant pastime; to
an American it is something quite different. I trust you will pardon me
for speaking so plainly, but I felt that I must make you understand. I
thank you for the honor you have done me, but I assure you it is quite
impossible to induce me to accept such an offer.”

Professor Scotch came forward.

“Señor,” he said, in rather poor Spanish, “I am this youth’s guardian,
and I can tell you that he speaks the truth. I would not permit him to
engage in such a degrading and brutal occupation, and that settles it.”

The professor’s face flushed, and he repressed his excitement with great
difficulty. He had cast aside his timidity, and was ready to express
himself in still more forcible language, but Frank checked him.

Rodriguez arose, politely expressing his regret. He saw it was useless
to say anything more.

Señorita Zuera also arose, and Frank accompanied them to the door.

When they were gone Frank found Professor Scotch tearing around the room
like a maniac, and almost frothing at the mouth.

“An insult!” roared the little man. “The idea! To think that an American
would have anything to do with a brutal bull fight!”

“You should take the offer in the spirit in which it was made,
professor,” smiled the boy. “Señor Rodriguez considered that he was
doing me an honor.”

It was some time before the professor cooled down.

Frank explained everything to Ephraim, who had been wondering what it
was all about.

“Wal, I be hung!” exclaimed the Vermonter. “I kinder cal’late yeou’re
the fust Yankee boy that was ever made such an offer.”

It was growing dark, and the boys were hungry. The trio finally
descended and obtained supper.

After supper, seated comfortably in their rooms, they discussed the
events of the day until Professor Scotch fell asleep in his chair.

“Now, Ephraim,” said Frank, “as long as we are to leave Madrid so soon,
I propose to go out and look the city over once more in the evening.
Will you come?”

“What’ll the professor say?”

“He is asleep, and he can say nothing till we return. Are you with me?”

“Ain’t we liable to run inter some kind uv trouble?”

“Not if we mind our own business. I will just write a little note for
the professor, telling him not to worry, and leave it where he will find
it in case he awakens before we return.”

Frank did so, and the two lads stole out of the room, leaving Professor
Scotch snoring in the easy-chair.

The Square of Puerta del Sol was aglow with lights and swarming with
people. The sidewalks were wide enough for four carriages to pass along
side by side, and these sidewalks were thronged with crowds. Carriages
were darting here and there across the square. By the fountain, on a
single paving stone, were a match vender, a civil guard, a student, a
beggar and a soldier, all in one group. Generals, officials, peasants,
ladies and toreadors were passing everywhere. And every one seemed
talking about the bull fights.

There were boys with newspapers for sale, the same as in the United
States. On every hand persons were lifting hats and greeting friends.
Street venders, with their wares hung about their necks, were crying,
“_Largo, largo._” A band of music was playing. The fountain shot streams
of water high into the air.

The streams crossed beautifully, shimmering in the gaslight, and fell
tinkling into the fountain basin. There was a feverish gayety that
immediately seized upon the two American lads, causing their blood to
leap through their veins and bringing laughter to their lips.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Frank. “This is the only city that I have seen in
Spain that impresses me favorably. It is like Paris, or a little more
so, if anything.”

“I dunno but this air travelin’ will sp’ile me for ther farm,” grinned
Ephraim. “It’ll be kinder monotonous to go back there and dig ‘taters
arter seein’ so much uv the world.”

They strolled about, taking note of everything that pleased them. They
gazed into the lighted windows of the shops, and they watched the
shifting crowds. As the hours advanced, the crowds seemed to grow
denser.

More than once did Frank hear himself spoken of by those who were
discussing the bull fights. He heard enough to learn that his action was
regarded with surprise, wonder and admiration. It was universally
acknowledged that he must be a trained bull fighter.

At length he was recognized, and it was not long before the boys found a
group of young men and boys following them about. That was not pleasant,
and they set about shaking them, which was found rather difficult. After
making some quick turns, Frank darted into a café, with Ephraim at his
heels.

The café was an immense saloon, ornamented with large mirrors. There
were tables everywhere, and from two to eight persons were seated around
each table, smoking and playing dominoes. The clicking of the markers as
they were turned and re-turned by a hundred hands sounded like a rain of
hailstones. Mingled with this was a steady hum of voices.

Many of the men wore, upon their shoulders, mantles of dark cloth, with
a large hood. All seemed very earnest over their games. They were
sipping chocolate from little cups, or indulging in stronger drinks, and
eating small, soft cakes.

As Frank and Ephraim came in quickly a party of three arose from one of
the tables in a corner not far from the door. Frank made for that table,
and the boys sat down there.

“Who would have thought I should be recognized in the street?” Frank
said, with some vexation. “They stared at me as if I were some wild
animal.”

“Hang me ef yeou ain’t as famous as a Spanish toreador!” exclaimed
Ephraim, proudly. “I ruther guess they’ll begin to think Yankees kin do
some things.”

“Be quiet,” commanded Frank. “Don’t be so ready to tell every one that
we are Yankees.”

Ephraim looked at his companion in profound astonishment.

“I be jeewizzled!” he gurgled. “Yeou ain’t ashamed uv it, be ye?”

“Not in the least, but Yankees are not thought much of in this country,
and there is no reason why we should go around seeking trouble by
proclaiming everywhere that we are from the United States. Caution is
not cowardice.”

“Thutteration! Never heard yeou talk like that afore! Yeou ain’t
generally any too cautious, b’gosh!”

“You never knew me to go around seeking trouble, Ephraim. I intend to
avoid danger when it is possible. After I get into a scrape I want to
see it through. It is the foolish fellow that does foolhardy things when
there is no need of it. If such a person should suddenly and
unexpectedly find himself in a position of great peril, he would be
liable to lose his nerve. At school, as you know, it was not the fellow
who walked nearest the brink of a precipice to astonish and awe his
companions who always turned out to be the pluckiest lad of them all. If
suddenly called on to risk his life to save that of another, it might be
the fellow who kept farthest from the brink who first dashed to the
rescue.”

“Wal,” drawled Ephraim, “yeou’re the funniest feller I ever see!
Sometimes I jest think I be thoroughly acquainted with ye, an’ then
again some other time I think I don’t know ye at all. Yeou’re fuller uv
contradictions than a bar’l uv old cider is uv jags.”

Frank laughed, and ordered some chocolate and cakes of a waiter. The
boys were quickly served with chocolate and bollos, as the little cakes
were called. On the top of each cup of chocolate a little milk was
swimming, but the chocolate itself was almost as thick as molasses, and
it was hot enough to burn one’s throat.

Since entering Spain, Frank had learned to like this chocolate extremely
well, and the little cakes were palatable, to say the least. Ephraim,
who had been reared on pork and potatoes, found it no easy thing to
accustom himself to the different cooking of different countries.

“Never saw a feller like yeou, Frank,” he grumbled, as Frank sipped the
hot chocolate as if it were the most delicious and cooling beverage in
the world. “Why, yeou kin eat the—the—what yer call it?—them things that
burn a chap all aout inside.”

“Chorizos?”

“Yeh, them’s um. Why, clear kayann pepper ain’t in it a minute with them
air things. A feller must hev a cast-iron stomach to keep um from
burnin’ a hole right aout through.”

“You are like the professor about your food. Why, he has nearly starved
since coming to Spain. He will not eat the puchero, which is the
national dish here.”

“Wal, nobody kin tell what it’s made of.”

“Oh, yes; in the first place comes a good slice of boiled meat, around
this are the wings of a fowl, pieces of sausage, vegetables and ham, and
over all this are plenty of beans, such as the Spaniards call garbanoz.
Sometimes there are other things——”

“By gum! yeou’re right; and what them other things be even yeou can’t
tell. Oh, yeou kin eat it ef yeou want to, but I’d give all I’m wuth,
abaout naow, to have one slappin’, heapin’ plate uv yaller-eyed beans,
baked in hog fat.”

Ephraim rolled his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as
his imagination pictured the delights of such a dish.

Of a sudden, Frank gave a start, and then his hand reached out and
touched Ephraim’s sleeve.

“Don’t turn around—keep still,” he directed. “I want to tell you
something.”

“Let her rip,” said Ephraim, cautiously, aware that his companion had
made an unpleasant discovery.

“Directly behind you, two tables away, is Gonzalez, the fellow whom I
knocked down.”

“Wal, that’s gol dern pleasant!” drawled the boy from Vermont. “Has he
spotted us?”

“I think so.”

“Is he watchin’ us?”

“I am sure he is, although he does not look this way. Keep still; let me
hear what he is saying.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXII.

THE REVOLUTIONIST.

The scar-faced banderillero was in the company of three other fellows
who looked decidedly villainous and desperate. He seemed to be talking
to them, but Frank discovered, in a moment, that every word was meant
for his ears.

“You need not tell me the Americans are ever brave!” came scornfully
from Gonzalez’s lips. “They are all cowards! It is a nation of cowards.”

“But remember how the young American rushed into the ring and slew the
bull,” said one of the others, who plainly spoke with the deliberate
purpose of giving the scar-faced rascal an opportunity to insult the
listening lad.

“Bah!” cried Gonzalez. “He did not know the danger. He saw us playing
with the bull, and he thought the creature harmless.”

“But he faced the bull’s charge, and he killed the animal with a single
stroke.”

“Which was fortunate for him, and it was all a mistake. He was so
frightened that he closed his eyes and struck. Why, he was white as a
ghost, and he trembled all over when the bull fell dead. It was with the
greatest difficulty that he kept on his feet. It is certain that he came
near fainting. Brave! Why, he is the biggest coward that ever lived! He
is a cur!”

Frank felt the hot blood flushing his cheeks, and yet he held himself in
check, knowing the fellow was seeking to draw him into a quarrel. To
resent the insult would be a play into Gonzalez’s hands.

One of the banderillero’s companions laughed harshly.

“You have a very poor opinion of Americans, señor,” he said: “but I
think you are right.”

“I know I am right,” Gonzalez asserted, more offensively than before.
“Now, if that brave American were here at this moment, and he should
hear me call him a coward and a cur—as I do!—he would not dare stand up
like a man and resent it.”

“I think you are mistaken, señor.”

The voice was smooth and musical. A bearded man, in a heavy cloak, who
had been sitting at a table close to Gonzalez’s elbow, was the speaker.
He had turned and uttered the words in a very cool and quiet manner.
That he was a Spaniard was evident by his pronunciation and appearance.

Gonzalez was astonished. He whirled quickly and glared at the stranger,
scowling blackly, while his companions allowed their hands to slip to
their bosoms in a sinister way.

The bearded stranger had a hat lopped over his eyes. He was smoking a
small cigar.

“I beg your pardon for breaking in, señor,” he said, suavely; “but I
heard you speaking slightingly of the Americans, and I could not refrain
from correcting what I believe is a mistaken impression. I believe the
Americans, in general, are as brave as our own people.”

Gonzalez showed his teeth.

“Indeed!” he exclaimed, fiercely. “Then I should advise you to go to
America and live among the brave Yankees. It will be much more agreeable
than for you to live in Spain, in case you continue to freely express
your admiration of the Americans. Americans are not admired in Spain.”

“They are misunderstood.”

“Bah! they are sneaks! They stole Cuba from us.”

“If they desired Cuba so much, Spain could not prevent.”

“What do I hear?” roared Gonzalez. “This is treason!”

“It is plain sense, señor. Cuba was misgoverned by Spain——”

“Treason!” roared Gonzalez, once more, and his companions echoed the
cry.

There was a commotion in the café. Men sprang up in their seats, their
eyes blazing. The stranger was quickly surrounded by an excited crowd.

“By Jove!” muttered Frank. “That fellow has placed himself in an awkward
position. I cannot understand this. Is it a part of the trick to get at
me?”

He was keenly on the alert, but Gonzalez and his companions seemed to
have forgotten the American lads. They were packed about the daring
stranger, whom they cursed in a way that told they longed to strangle
him. One of them demanded the stranger’s name, but this he declined to
give, rising to his feet and drawing his cloak about him. Then he
attempted to leave the café. A hand darted out and grasped the
stranger’s whiskers, and, in a twinkling, they were jerked from the
man’s face.

The beard was false!

A cry of satisfaction and triumph broke from the lips of the man who had
snatched the beard away.

“Esparto!” he shouted. “I knew it was he!”

The fierce crowd fell back a bit before the man who had so suddenly lost
his disguise.

“Esparto, the Valencian!” they exclaimed.

The stranger—now a stranger no longer—drew himself up proudly, his dark
eyes flashing defiance.

“Yes, señors, I am Esparto,” he admitted. “What would you have with me?”

In Spain the Valencians are known as very fierce and daring, being great
fighters. It is necessary to kill a Valencian to conquer him.

Gonzalez, the scar-faced banderillero, seemed astounded for the moment,
and then his face took on an expression of malignant satisfaction and
triumph.

“So the revolutionist has returned to Madrid!” he sneered. “Did he come
back to see Señorita Zuera? or did he come to arouse the people against
the government?”

Esparto regarded the fellow with a look of deep contempt.

“It is nothing to you why I returned,” he declared. “You have neither
the courage to become a revolutionist or to support the government.
Gonzalez, you are a cur.”

The man with the scar writhed, showing his fierce teeth. His hand was
thrust into his bosom, and the fingers closed around the haft of a very
keen knife.

“You shall regret your words, Señor Esparto!” he grated. “I will take
care that you do.”

“Take care that my knife does not split your cowardly heart, Señor
Gonzalez. Keep beyond my reach.”

“What in thunder is all the raow about, Frank?” asked Ephraim, who did
not understand what was being said.

“That fellow is in a bad scrape,” Merriwell swiftly answered. “He is a
revolutionist who is well known in Madrid, and he was here in disguise.
From what has passed, I should say he is none other than the lover of
Señorita Zuera.”

“Great gosh! And he has come back here to see her?”

“It is most likely.”

“Wal, he has put his foot in it!”

“It looks like it. He betrayed himself by daring to speak in favor of
Americans, and now he is in a bad scrape.”

Forgetting that they were in the least peril, the boys watched with the
greatest interest all that was passing.

By this time every man in the saloon knew that Esparto, the Valencian,
had come there in disguise, and that he had been unmasked. This
knowledge created unbounded excitement.

Not all the men in that place were the enemies of the revolutionist.
Some of them were inclined to be revolutionists themselves, but they did
not dare express themselves openly. For this reason Esparto’s enemies
could be heard, while his friends kept silent, and it seemed that he had
no friends.

Esparto’s eyes told that he held Gonzalez in the greatest contempt, but
his tongue spoke even plainer.

“How will you make me regret my words, señor?” he asked. “Not by meeting
me man to man, I will make oath. That you have not the courage to do.”

“You shall be delivered over to the officers. You will suffer as a
traitor.”

“I thought it would be in some such manner that a coward would seek
retaliation. I am no traitor to Spain, but I stand for her advantage and
advancement. Because I say all Americans are not cowards is no token
that I would not be among the first to fight for Spain if I believed
America had actually wronged my country.”

“Your country! Bah! You have no country! You are an outcast—an outlaw!”

“It is so,” confessed Esparto, with a touch of sadness. “In America
speech is free. In Spain it is different. Some things may be said; but
some other things may not be whispered. The one who says Spain has not
dealt justly and liberally with Cuba is branded as a traitor. The one
who advocated home rule in Cuba is said to be the enemy of Spain, and
his life is at stake. And yet our country was plunging deeper and deeper
into debt each day in order to sustain the great army that was fighting
to whip the insurgents in Cuba. The debt we may never pay, but who
thinks of that!

“Ah! do not think the people of Spain are all fools! No, no! They have
endured many things, and have not murmured. But all the time they are
learning a great lesson. They have seen the things which have been done
by the United States and by France, and they have thought what things
might be done here. France showed us the way. Wait a little. The scenes
of the French Commune may be repeated in Spain! The streets of Madrid
may run red with blood! Then will the people reveal their power! Then
will they rise for their freedom! Beware of that time! Some day Spain
shall become a republic!”

“Treason! treason!” shouted several voices.

But the listeners had been profoundly impressed and greatly stirred by
the fiery words of the daring revolutionist. Not a few felt that Esparto
was foretelling what must come upon Spain. Not a few felt that it was
coming very soon. The great masses were restive beneath the burden
thrown upon them, and that burden was increasing with each passing day.
It did seem that the time was ripe for a general uprising in Spain.

Those who listened to Esparto turned to look into each other’s eyes,
seeking to read the thoughts of their companions.

After that cry of treason there was a little silence, and then Gonzalez
snarled:

“If never before had there been anything against Señor Esparto, you have
now said enough to seal your fate. Send for the civil guards! Close the
doors, and do not let the traitor escape!”

“Stand aside!”

Esparto strode toward the door.

The revolutionist had not taken two steps when a hand that clutched a
keen knife arose above his back.

But that knife was not planted between Esparto’s shoulders.

A pistol shot rang out, there was a cry of pain, and the knife fell to
the floor!

Esparto whirled like a cat, and he saw behind him the would-be assassin
clinging to a hand that had been shattered by the bullet.

But that was not all he saw.

Standing upon a chair was an American lad who held a smoking revolver in
his grasp.

Esparto knew his life had been saved by Frank Merriwell’s shot.

Then there was a great commotion in that saloon. Knives leaped into a
hundred hands, and cries broke from as many throats. It seemed as if
that shot had been the signal for a general riot. The friends of Esparto
were not ready to stand still and see him cut down, and a general fight
broke out in a minute.

A rush was made for Frank, but the boy leaped to the top of a table, and
he held a revolver in either hand. With those weapons he stood the crowd
off for a few seconds, saying to Ephraim:

“Open the window behind me! Be quick! It is our only chance to escape!”

Ephraim was somewhat dazed, but he soon recovered, and, as nearly all
the attention of the crowd was given to Esparto and Frank, he succeeded
in reaching the window.

But he could not open it!

In the meantime Frank’s peril was increasing with each passing second,
and he knew he could not hold back that crowd of excited Spaniards much
longer.

“It is the American who killed the bull!” shouted many voices.

“Kill him!” snarled Gonzalez, seeking to urge the mob on. “He has shot
Pedor Dominican!”

“Open that window!” Frank again called, in English, to Ephraim.

“Hang the old thing! I can’t git her open.”

“Open it some way—any way!”

“All right—here goes!”

Crash—jingle—jangle!

The boy from Vermont had caught up a chair and smashed the window,
breaking out sash, glass and all.

That jangling crash betrayed the boy’s scheme to the mob.

“Stop them!” yelled Gonzalez. “The window—don’t let them get out by the
window!”

“Back!” rang out Frank Merriwell’s voice. “If you crowd me I shall
shoot!”

Ephraim leaped out through the window, whirling to see if Frank would
make the attempt to follow.

From one table to another Frank leaped, and then, doubling up like an
acrobat, he sailed through and out into the open air by way of the
window.

He struck on his feet, like a cat, and then whirled to see if Esparto
was making an effort to escape.

The revolutionist had seized the opportunity, caught up a chair, and
cleared a path to the door with the weapon. He sprang out by the door as
Frank turned to look back.

“All right!” half laughed the boy, whose usual daring, in a time of
deadly danger, was now fully displayed, making him seem utterly
reckless. “_Adios_, my Spanish friends! You are very easy indeed! We
will see you later—nit!”

Then he caught hold of Ephraim, hissing:

“Skip, old man—skip swiftly!”

A man came leaping to their side, softly crying:

“If the young Americans would escape, let them follow me. Otherwise they
will be sure to run into the hands of officers and be arrested. Come!”

Frank recognized the voice of Esparto.

Pursuers were coming after the revolutionist, crying loudly.

“Come on, Ephraim!” said Frank.

Away they went after the friendly Spaniard, who could run like a deer.
He darted into a narrow passage between two buildings, sprang in at a
doorway, with the boys at his heels, led them up one flight of stairs
and down another, brought them into a street that was poorly lighted,
turned several corners, and then passed through yet another building.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXIII.

LEAVING MADRID.

As Frank, Ephraim and the Spaniard walked along a quiet street,
breathing heavily, Esparto turned to Frank, saying, warmly:

“Young señor, I have you to thank for my life. A knife would have
finished me but for you. I am grateful.”

“It is possible I have you to thank for my life,” said the boy. “I had
just become aware that my friend and myself were in a very bad scrape
when you interested yourself in the affair.”

“Yes, señor. It was very foolish of you to come there.”

“I did not know what sort of a place I was getting into.”

“Gonzalez meant to kill you. To me that was plain, and I sought to give
you an opportunity to escape by creating a diversion. I did not look to
find myself exposed, but somebody saw my beard was not natural, and it
was snatched away. Still, I had many friends there, and I knew it. What
I feared was that you would not get out. I looked for you to hasten
away, but you remained.”

“I did not feel like getting out and leaving you to be cut to death. I
had heard of you.”

“And still Spaniards think Americans have no courage! You had heard of
me?”

“Yes, Señor Esparto.”

“From whom?”

“Señorita Zuera.”

“Zuera? Then you must have seen her since the bull fight.”

“I have. She came to the hotel where I am stopping.”

“She came there?” questioned Esparto, wonderingly.

“Yes, to warn me that Villasca might seek to kill me.”

“Of that I have no doubt. He is a scoundrel. It was a wonderful thing
you did to-day in killing the bull, and I thank you, young señor, a
thousand times, for saving Zuera. I was with the spectators, but I was
so far back that it was impossible for me to reach the ring in time to
save her. Barbastro should have been on hand when Villasca failed. Brave
little Zuera!”

“She is indeed brave; but it seems a dreadful thing that she should
follow such a dangerous business.”

“Ah! She shall follow it no more! I have come back to her. I have come
to take her away. We will escape from Spain and go to America together.
Spain has made me an outcast, and I shall have to adopt another country.
I shall interest myself in Cuba. When the revolution comes in Spain, as
it must come soon, I may return here. Not till then.”

“You may not find it so easy to get out of Spain. It will be known that
you are in Madrid, and then they will watch for you.”

“I tricked them once,” laughed Esparto, confidently, “and I can do so
again. They will not capture me.”

“I trust you are right. You have done me a great service to-night, and
it is but fair that I should do what I could in return. I will give you
letters of introduction to persons in America whom it will be a good
thing for you to know.”

“You are very kind, young señor. You are as generous as you are brave. I
will accept such letter ... with thanks.”

“Where can we go that I may write them, for it is possible I shall not
see you again after we part to-night?”

“That is true. I shall be forced to change my disguise, and I shall
leave Madrid as soon as possible after seeing Zuera. If you are wise,
you will not delay in getting out of Spain. To-morrow it may be charged
against you that you aided Esparto, the revolutionist, and you may find
yourself arrested. It can avail you nothing to remain here, and it may
cost you your liberty—your very life. Be warned and get away as soon as
possible.”

“I will do so, señor.”

Frank was impressed by the words of the Valencian, for he realized that
the shot he had fired in the saloon might make him a criminal in the
eyes of the Spanish government. Obstinacy is not courage, and no one
knew it better than Frank.

“You are wise,” said Esparto. “Villasca hates you and it is plain that
Gonzalez has no love for you. Your enemies may combine against you.”

“I will leave Madrid by the first train in the morning.”

“Very good. I may be on the same train, but you will not know me. And
now I shall lose no time in hastening to Zuera. If you come with me, you
may write those letters in her house.”

“I will come. I wish to see her once more and bid her farewell. Lead on,
Señor Esparto.”

It did not take the party long to reach the house in which the beautiful
bull fighter resided.

They were warmly received, and once again Frank was thanked for what he
had done.

“If you ever come over to America you must call upon me,” said Frank, to
both the girl and her lover. And he wrote down his home address.

It was arranged that Señor Esparto and Zuera should leave Madrid the
next day. Their flight was, of course, a secret one, and their absence
was not discovered by their enemies until it proved too late to follow
them.

When Frank and Ephraim got back to their hotel they found the professor
anxiously awaiting their return.

He had heard ugly rumors, and was afraid the boys were dead.

“We leave for London to-morrow, at seven in the morning,” he said.

And all the argument in the world would not budge him.

“Well, it’s just as well,” said Frank. “I’ve had enough of these
blood-thirsty Spaniards.”

“By gum! so hev I,” came from the Vermont boy. “Let’s git out, an’ to
some spot where a feller kin talk English, by gosh!”

To avoid trouble, they went to the depot in a round-about way. No
enemies were encountered, and soon they were speeding northward.

Three days later found Frank and his friends in London. They took
lodging at St. John’s Wood, and proceeded to see the sights without
delay.

Ephraim felt more at home here than in either Paris or Madrid, and the
boys proceeded to enjoy themselves hugely until one day Ephraim was
summoned to come home.

The parting was keenly felt by both.

But a day later something happened that upset Frank a good deal more.

What that was is best told in this notice, which appeared immediately
afterward in a leading English paper:

“It is feared that the dynamite outrages of a dozen years ago are about
to be renewed in London. Although an effort has been made to suppress
the facts, it is now known that an attempt was made last Saturday to
wreck the Houses of Parliament, and it might have been successful but
for the suspicions of a young American tourist, who gave his name as
Frank Merriwell, and who saw a mysterious old man deliberately abandon a
satchel on the stairs leading up into Westminster Hall. Mr. Merriwell
heard a singular ticking sound that seemed to come from the satchel, and
he directed the attention of a policeman to it. The satchel was
immediately removed and opened, when it was found to contain an infernal
machine that was on the point of exploding. By his prompt action in
notifying the officer, Mr. Merriwell undoubtedly prevented a frightful
explosion, that must have wrecked the houses and killed scores of
persons, as Saturday was ‘visiting day,’ and the place was thronged. The
mysterious old man who left the satchel has not been found, but the
police are industriously working on the case.”

And thus it came about that, much to his disgust, before he had been a
week in London, Frank found himself under the close surveillance of the
English police. Wherever he went, there always seemed to be an officer
in uniform or in plain clothes who was watching him.

“Confound it!” he angrily cried, as he flung himself into an easy-chair,
after a day of sight-seeing from the top of an omnibus. “I am getting
decidedly sick of this business.”

“Eh?” said Professor Scotch, looking up from his journal, in which he
had been writing. “What did you say?”

“I say I am getting sick and tired of this business.”

“To what do you refer, my boy?”

“This being dogged about like a criminal by the police. I have been
watched and tracked ever since the discovery of that infernal machine,
just as if I did not tell all I knew about it at the time. I have been
summoned to Scotland Yard, where I was questioned and cross-questioned,
as if I were a witness on the stand. It seems as if I have been
compelled to give the addresses of almost all the respectable persons I
know. To-day, when I left the house, I suspected that I would be
followed, and I resolved to give the fellow who followed me a merry
chase. I took a ’bus to Westminster Bridge, where I left it and tramped
back to Charing Cross. There I took another ’bus to Paddington, where I
left it and took another through Oxford Street and Holborn. Then I took
another line and went northward to the Queen’s Elm, returning by
Holloway Road, City Road, Caledonian Road, Euston Road, Portland Road,
Regent Street and Piccadilly. And, say—what do you think?”

“Eh? What do I think?”

“Yes. I presume you think sometimes.”

“Sir, sir! It has been demonstrated that even apes think.”

“In that case there can be no further doubt but you sometimes think. I
beg your pardon.”

“What’s that?” spluttered the little man, leaping to his feet. “Do you
mean to compare me to an ape? You insolent young scoundrel! You saucy
young rascal! It is more than I can endure!”

“Keep cool, professor. Of course I didn’t mean anything of the sort. I
must have somebody to joke with, now that Ephraim has left me and
returned ‘hum to the farm,’ and I sometimes forget your age.”

“Ephraim Gallup was not to blame for going home. I presume he decided it
was his only chance of getting home with his life, for you were
continually getting into scrapes, and the scrapes grew worse and worse
as you progressed.”

“He went home because his ‘folks’ succeeded in getting an appealing
letter to him at last. His mother could not endure the thought that her
boy was ‘racin’ up an’ daown the universe from one end uv creation to
t’other. But you did not answer my question. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I was followed everywhere to-day, from the time I left the house
till I returned.”

“Is that all?”

“Is that all! I should say it was quite enough. Every time I took a
different ’bus line, a little, dried-up sort of a man, with a melancholy
mustache that curled around the corners of his mouth and an eye that
never by any chance seemed to be looking in my direction, changed with
me. At Queen’s Cross I got mad. I demanded to know what he was following
me around for. I grabbed him by the shoulders and talked fiercely to
him. Then I was ashamed of myself, for he seemed nearly frightened to
death, and he begged my pardon twenty times, saying he was out to see
the sights, and he would take particular care not to ride on another
’bus with me.”

“Well?”

“Well, he was not on the ’bus when I started back, and I began to think
I had made a fool of myself. There was a garrulous old lady, dressed
like a fright, with cork-screw curls, out-of-date bonnet, black mits and
spotted veil. She said she was on a ‘tower,’ and she was bound to see
all the sights. She was a character, and she made fun for me. She said
she was traveling alone, as her man was too scared to leave the hotel
where they were stopping. I volunteered to show her some of the sights,
for I thought I could have a barrel of fun with her. And so I showed her
around.”

“Very kind of you, Frank; very kind.”

Frank groaned.

“Yes, awfully kind! I took a tumble to myself, after spending two hours
showing her the ‘sights.’”

“Took a tumble?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was helping the old lady down from the ’bus. Her dress caught, and
then I saw she wore a pair of men’s trousers underneath. That aroused
me, and I looked her over carefully. May I be hanged, if it wasn’t the
same dried up little man who had been following me in the first place!
His mustache was gone, and he had changed his disguise, but it was the
same man.”

“Well! well! I do declare!”

“I declared a trifle about then myself. I quietly informed him that I
knew him, and that I would give him a jolly good thrashing if I caught
him again. And then I skipped.”

“Well, you got rid of him at last.”

“Did I! Look here, professor.”

Frank led Scotch to the window, and pointed to a wretched-looking beggar
who was loafing along on the opposite side of the way.

“See there.”

“Eh? Well, sir?”

“That is the man!”

“Good gracious!”

Frank returned to his chair, and flung himself down.

“It is too much,” he said; “it is altogether too much! Did I commit a
crime against the government by discovering that infernal machine? or
what have I done? I can’t stand this business! Somebody will get damaged
if it keeps on.”

“Easy, Frank, easy,” cautioned the professor, entreatingly. “Now, don’t
get into trouble in London, I beg of you! You nearly lost your life in
Paris, and we were forced to flee from Madrid and from Spain. It seems
to me that we might get along in London without a repetition of those
experiences.”

“Well, I am not going to be dogged around in this way much longer. If it
continues, I shall go to Scotland Yard and make a complaint. It is
altogether too much for me to endure.”

“Now, I beg you not to get mixed up with the police. London police are
peculiar. They arrest you if you toss a scrap of paper from a cab window
into the street. I know how you will talk if you go to Scotland Yard,
and I’m sure you’ll get into trouble.”

“You are altogether too afraid of getting into trouble, professor. A
little trouble does not worry me, although I never go around looking for
it. A small row with the London police would make it all the more
interesting. By Jove! I believe I’ll go out and have a session with that
fellow who has been chasing me around.”

He arose quickly, but the professor caught hold of him.

“Don’t, Frank! Have some regard for my feelings. We will change our
lodgings.”

“And let them think we are trying to avoid them by sneaking away! Not on
your life, professor! I am not that kind of a hairpin!”

“Well, we won’t mind them. To-morrow we will go and see Westminster
Abbey.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“We will go to the British Museum.”

“And dig over old musty books and squint at antique manuscripts. Excuse
me! It would be altogether too jolly. My nerves would not stand the
pressure.”

“Then we will visit Kensal Green Cemetery, where Thackeray and Tom Hood
are buried.”

“Say, that would be simply hilarious! I fear I should die from pure
enjoyment! I’m afraid you will have to excuse me, professor. My heart is
too weak to stand the strain.”

“I never saw such a boy! Where shall we go?”

“I say, we’ll go to the Derby! To-morrow is the day. Now, it is useless
for you to say no, professor. You declined to allow me to attend the
races in Paris, but I do not mean to miss the Derby. All Americans who
come to London see the Derby. It wouldn’t do to go back to the United
States and confess that we did not attend. It is settled, professor.”

Scotch groaned.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I’ll have to humor you this time; but I do
not know what your poor dead uncle would think of me if he knew I
permitted you to witness such degrading spectacles.”

Frank laughed.

“In his younger days, Uncle Asher was somewhat sporty himself,
professor. If he were alive and here, I am sure he would take me to see
the Derby. Don’t let it worry you. And to-night we will go to the
theater.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE DERBY.

It was a bright, sunny day. The Clapham Road was thronged with every
make of vehicles known to London streets. There were open trucks, with
kitchen chairs for seats, omnibuses, covered with advertisements,
hansoms, with hampers on top; drays, vans and carryalls. In the moving
line were coaches, with ringing horns and jangling harnesses, while
costermongers’ carts could be seen everywhere. And every vehicle had its
load of passengers, from the four-horse coach to the costermonger’s
cart, the latter often carrying six men and being drawn by one poor
little donkey.

To watch this procession, thousands of people thronged the two sidewalks
and filled the windows of the houses.

It is a jolly, roistering crowd that goes to the Derby, as Frank was not
long in discovering. All along the line parties were singing popular
songs; some were playing cards on small tables placed in their vans;
some were beating time on their knees, and some were dancing up and down
the limited confines of their wagons.

By making an effort for it, Frank had succeeded in obtaining a splendid
seat upon one of the coaches. The professor was at his side, trying to
look glum and disconsolate, as if he did not approve of such things at
all.

“Hi, there, sir!” bawled a ragged urchin, who had been racing along
beside the coach, occasionally turning handsprings and cartwheels; “your
whiskers are sunstroked, sir.”

“The insolent young rascal!” growled the professor, whose fiery-red
beard was a continual source of mingled pride and chagrin to him.

“’Ope you’ll pick a winner, sir,” cried another bare-legged ragamuffin.
“You might throw us your moldy coppers, sir.”

“Nice boy,” smiled the professor, as he fished around in his pocket and
brought forth a nickel, which he tossed to the second boy.

In the procession the costermongers were the most prominent. They could
be readily distinguished by their dress. They all wore a white and blue
dotted handkerchief, and long-tailed coats covered with huge pearl
buttons. Some of them wore trousers slashed at the bottom on the outer
seam, Mexican style.

The costers all seemed in a decidedly jovial mood. Some of them were
accompanied by wives or sweethearts. Their sweethearts banged their hair
after a fashion that distinguished them, and nearly all wore a broad
silver chain and a most amazing bonnet slanting down in front over the
hair and eyes, and shooting up at the back to tower high in the air.
These bonnets were covered with ribbons, velvet and dyed feathers.

The costers seemed to feel that they owned the road, although they
remained quite jovial if not crowded, and they often stood up in their
carts to call to people on the coaches, addressing everybody in a most
familiar manner.

After nearly two hours of steady driving, the coach on which Frank and
the professor rode began to draw away from the suburbs of handsome
villas. Parks were seen, and villages were passed through.

In every village carts could be seen standing in front of the public
houses, in which the occupants of the carts were sometimes drinking.
Sometimes they were stretching their limbs by dancing on the village
green, men and girls together, shouting and laughing.

It was a decidedly noisy and good-natured crowd, and, above all, a
remarkably thirsty crowd. Some of the carts carried kegs of ale, and the
occupants of those carts seemed continually drinking from their pewter
mugs.

“Dreadful! dreadful!” muttered Professor Scotch. “I never beheld
anything like this before. It seems as if every one was bent on a
debauch.”

“It’s the way at the Derby, professor,” laughed Frank. “By Jove! it’s a
sight worth seeing. I am glad we did not miss the Derby.”

At last they came to fields; passed between the high stone walls of some
vast estate; passed hundreds of children in uniform ranged behind a
hedge and cheering wildly, just as if they were not orphans who lived in
the great dismal building in the background; passed from the level road
to the hills and the downs, where the white dust arose in clouds and
shut out the view like a fog, through which came the creaking of wheels,
the cracking of whips and the occasional blast of a horn.

Then they arrived at a place where it seemed that an army had encamped.
Every dust-covered hedge was lined with horses and donkeys, while others
were picketed at the end of ropes that allowed them to graze.

Through this mass of horses they seemed to pass for miles before the
racetrack was reached. On all sides were rows upon rows of carts, hansom
cabs and omnibuses, all abandoned for the time.

And then, at last, Frank beheld the highest grandstand in the world,
crowded with people, who had already obtained favorable positions to
watch the races.

The track was reached. From the top of the coach Frank beheld a
spectacle such as he had never before witnessed. Before him was a valley
which was thronging with human beings and covered with what seemed to be
unnumbered circuses. Everywhere were booths and tents, making long,
irregular avenues. Everywhere were flags and canvas pictures, crowds of
people moving in black blocks, swaying, pushing, shoving.

And there was no admission fee to the races, unless one sought a seat on
the grandstand!

The coaches faced the grandstand from the opposite side of the track,
packed closely together, and forming a barrier three rows deep,
seemingly locked and entangled beyond all possibility of ever getting
away again.

On the top of nearly every coach ladies and gentlemen were lunching,
chatting, laughing and making merry.

The sight made Frank hungry, and, as they had not brought a lunch, he
proposed to the professor that they should leave the coach and find
something to eat.

“Never!” cried the little man, in terror. “It would be impossible to
find our way back here again.”

“Then I shall go alone.”

In vain the professor forbade it. Frank leaped down, laughing, and
quickly disappeared in the throng.

It did not take him long to find a place where he could obtain
sandwiches and other things, and he satisfied his hunger, after which he
carried a lunch to the professor.

Scotch was hungry enough, and glad to get the lunch, but he begged Frank
not to go away again.

“I came here to see the sights, professor, and I am not going to tie
myself to the top of a coach. Will you come?”

But the little man could not be induced to abandon his place of safety
on the top of the coach, and so Frank wandered away alone.

He visited the merry-go-rounds, the chutes, the shooting-galleries, the
swings, the boxing-booths, and then he came to where the bookmakers were
standing in couples, dressed as nearly alike as possible, shouting
themselves hoarse and red in the face.

As Frank stood listening to the man who was bawling huskily from the
nearest stand, he felt a touch on the arm, and an insinuating voice said
in his ear:

“I ’opes as ’ow you’re not thinkin’ of putting your good money with that
gent, young sir. ’E’s not to be trusted. You might as well throw your
good money hinto the wide, wide sea, sir. Now, sir, hit’s myself, ’Arry
’Awkins, of Deptford, wot can tell you ’ow to lay your stuff as to pick
the winner. The gents wot patronize me get quids for hevery bob they put
hup. I don’t waste my toime ’anging ’round pubs, but I’m hup hevery
mornin’ on these downs a-watching the ’orses, hand I know what I tells
yer is straight. You can trust ’Arry ’Awkins, of Deptford, hevery time.”

A smooth-faced fellow, in Scotch plaid and a bright red necktie, smiled
into the boy’s face in a most enticing manner.

It was a tout, who was trying to sell tips on the races, and Frank
immediately remembered that the fellow had been a passenger in a little
coster’s cart that had hung close by him all the way from the Surrey
side.

“I have no intention of betting on the races,” declared the boy; “so you
are wasting your time with me.”

Mr. ’Awkins regarded him with a look of profound admiration.

“I see, sir,” he said, with a broad wink. “You knows too much to throw
away your good stuff, sir. Hi take hit you’re from Hamerica, sir?”

“Didn’t I tell you that you were wasting your time,” came rather sharply
from Frank. “You can’t work the riffle with me, my man.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir; beggin’ yer pardon! You ’ave made a mistake in
me, sir! I ham not that kind. You ’ave a bright face——”

Frank laughed.

“My dear fellow, you can’t catch a Yankee lad with taffy. I have no
money to throw away. Look for some other sucker.”

Then he wheeled about sharply and moved away.

A clown on stilts strode along and stepped over Frank’s shoulder. In a
little open space a man was allowing anybody to break stones on his
chest with a sledge hammer. There were minstrels of all nationalities,
who were singing songs. Yellow-haired girls on stilts found their way
about, and sang to the people on the coaches. Beggars were there, and
hungry men fought in the dirt for the chicken bones that fell from a
plate; exhausted boys and drunken men, who were sleeping under the very
feet of the crowd.

And then, in the midst of the crowd, Frank felt something thrust into
his hand. It was a slip of paper, and something was written on it. He
looked at the writing, and this is what he read:

“You are marked. You are followed. Return to your coach. You are in
deadly danger here. Beware of the man with the death-cold hand. It is
the grip of doom.”

Frank looked around swiftly, catching a glimpse of ’Arry ’Awkins in the
swaying crowd. The hot blood leaped to the boy’s face.

“So it is that fellow who is following me,” he thought. “I might have
known it.”

Quickly thrusting the warning note into his pocket, he started to force
his way through the crowd toward Mr. ’Awkins.

Then there was a sudden commotion, a swaying and shouting, and Frank
found himself crowded and hustled. In the midst of all this commotion
something cold and clammy, like the hand of a dead man, fastened on his
wrist. It gave him a shock. He tried to twist away, but the fingers were
like iron bands. Something told him that he was in truth in great
danger.

Then ’Arry ’Awkins came beating his way through the mob that hemmed the
boy in, caught the lad by the collar, struck out and smote somebody in
the face, and yanked Frank away.

Breathless, bewildered, at a loss to understand it, Frank allowed the
man from Deptford to force a road through the mob and pull him after.

The swaying mass dissolved in a moment, and it seemed that nothing
unusual had occurred; but a boy stood looking at his wrist, where there
were fingerprints that sunk deep into the flesh.

The grip of doom! What did it mean? Frank asked himself the question. He
had not seen the owner of that death-cold hand, but the icy touch had
sent a shudder to his heart.

“Hexcuse me, sir,” said Mr. ’Awkins; “but I saw as ’ow you was being
’ustled and I gave you a ’and. ’Ave you lost your purse?”

“I never carry a purse in such places.”

“Which is wise of you, young sir. I feared as ’ow you ’ad lost your
purse.”

And then, before the boy could say more, the man from Deptford slipped
away and was quickly lost in the crowd.

Frank moved toward the coaches, wondering over what had happened. He
understood that it could not be a joke, as it was not probable he would
be singled out as the victim for such a jest in that great gathering. If
not a joke, then there was surely some deep significance in it all.

And why had ’Arry ’Awkins rushed to his assistance? Had the tout struck
the owner of that dead-cold hand?

Frank felt in his pocket, and found the warning note. Marked and
followed! In deadly danger! Why was he marked and followed? and why was
he in deadly danger?

It was all darkly mysterious, and the boy’s curiosity was aroused, as
well as his anger.

Of a sudden, as he drew near the coaches, he started and uttered an
exclamation of great amazement.

“Am I dreaming?”

Passing close at hand was a young and beautiful girl, clinging to the
arm of a much over-dressed youth. Frank believed he recognized the girl
at a glance, but it did not seem possible. He stared at her, and then
became convinced that he had made no mistake. With a second exclamation,
he started forward, his hand outstretched, his hat lifted.

“Inza Burrage!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXV.

A MYSTERY.

The girl saw him, and he observed that her face paled and then flushed.
He did not doubt but she recognized him, but she turned coldly away. The
over-dressed youth gave Frank a look that seemed to say he longed to
crack the American lad over the head with the cane he carried, and they
passed on.

Frank felt as if he had received a blow in the face. He stood there,
dazed, and watched them melt into the moving throng and disappear. Then,
when it was too late, he started forward to make sure it was Inza.

He did not find them; they had vanished.

It is utterly impossible to describe the emotions which filled the boy’s
heart as he once more turned to seek his coach. Never in his life had he
been so confused as by the events of the last few minutes.

“I may have been deceived,” he muttered. “It could not have been my old
chum, Inza; and yet my last letter from Fardale said Bernard Burrage
contemplated taking a trip abroad for his health. It may have been; but
why did she cut me?”

He seemed to think in a confused manner, and he paid little heed to his
surroundings. He was quite unaware that the races were being run, and
that the crowd was yelling and cheering like a lot of lunatics.

“It must be that she did not recognize me,” he said, speaking to
himself. “She did not expect to see me here, and I have changed some
since we last met in New Orleans. That’s it—that’s the explanation.”

But it did not satisfy him. She had looked him squarely in the face, and
she had heard him speak her name, as he started forward, with hat raised
and hand outstretched. Over and over came the thought that it was surely
Inza, and she had given him the cut direct.

Who was the flashy youth with her? The question struck him like a blow.

“He looked English,” thought the wondering boy. “It seems that I have
heard her speak of her English relations. Now I know I have. That must
have been a cousin. He gave me an insolent stare, confound him! I’d like
to crack his head!”

Frank’s jealousy was beginning to stir his blood. He longed to see Inza
and her companion again, but knew there was not one chance in a thousand
of finding them in that great throng.

When he reached his coach he found the little professor standing on the
highest seat and cheering like mad over a very close race. Frank climbed
up and sat down, continuing to meditate on the events of the last
half-hour, and paying very little heed to the hot heat that was being
run on the track.

The professor was surprised to find Frank there, and he was still more
surprised to find the boy did not enthuse in the least over the races.

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded the little man, in his big,
hoarse voice. “You must be seriously ill!”

“Don’t bother me,” said Frank.

But the professor did bother him. He would not let the boy alone, but
continued to ply him with questions.

Frank did not think it best to tell of the remarkable warning he had
received and of the grip of the icy hand, but he did tell how he had
seen Inza Burrage and she had failed to recognize him.

“Miss Burrage?” exclaimed Scotch, who had known the girl at Fardale. “In
England? You must be mistaken!”

“I am not,” declared the boy, positively. “I have tried to think that I
was, but I have given that up. It was Inza, and she gave me the cut. I
will find her, and demand an explanation.”

“Find her! Well, if you couldn’t find her after losing sight of her in
this crowd, it is not likely you will be able to find her in London.
There is little show for that.”

Frank was forced to confess to himself that this was true, but still he
felt that something would bring them together again.

Instead of watching the races, Frank watched the faces in the shifting
throng, longing and hoping to catch a glimpse of Inza once more.

He was disappointed. The last race was run, and then came the desperate
hurrying of departure. Frightened horses were harnessed in great haste,
the different members of coaching parties were collected, horns began to
blow and whips to crack, and the vast multitude that had been gathering
for many hours strove to get away all at once.

At last, the track was left behind, the downs were cleared, and the
Clapham Road was reached, where the procession of the forenoon was found
moving toward London.

And now the crowd seemed almost riotous. Those who had won on the races
were hilarious over their success, and those who had lost shouted and
sang, that they might forget their misfortune.

Everybody seemed to have wooden doll-babies stuck in their hatbands,
which Frank discovered was a time-honored custom at the Derby. Some had
bought hollow tubes and dried peas to blow through the tubes, and they
were shooting away at everybody and anybody in a most reckless fashion.
Some of the costers had obtained paper caps and false noses, and were
playing the part of clowns on their way home. Not a few of them were
provided with accordions, from which they pumped all sorts of wheezy
tunes. And all along the line the horns were sounding and the whips
cracking.

At the public houses the carts were gathered again, but there was very
little dancing on the greens. Under the hedges some of the weary and
overloaded merrymakers had stowed themselves to rest, and were sleeping
soundly, for all of the noise of the passing procession.

It was quite dark when the London asphalt was reached. The street was
brightly lighted, and either side was thronged with spectators. Again
the beggars were entreating every one to throw out a few “moldy
coppers,” and hoping every one had a successful day.

When Frank and the professor reached their lodgings, after taking
supper, both were well satisfied to sit down and rest after the events
of the day.

“I wouldn’t go through it again for a fortune,” declared the professor,
grimly.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” asserted Frank, decidedly.

The landlady came up with their mail. She handed Frank a sealed
envelope, which she said had been left at the door by a muffled man less
than a minute after the boy entered the house.

“I see as ’ow hit is a mourning henvelope, young sir,” she said. “I
’opes as ’ow none hof your friends or relatives hare dead.”

A mourning envelope! The sight of it gave the boy a start, but what
astounded him most was his name written on the envelope. It was in a
peculiar black hand, and the boy immediately decided that the writer had
made an effort to disguise his chirography.

But what startled him the most was that on this black-edged envelope his
name was written in blood-red ink!

The landlady stood around, waiting for Frank to open the envelope,
casting a crooked eye at him in an inquisitive and suspicious manner.

“Very good, Mrs. Bumley,” said the boy, regaining his composure. “Thank
you.”

She did not take the hint, but lingered about, saying:

“I ’opes it ain’t nothink serious, young sir. It was a strange-looking
gent wot ’anded the letter to me. He were all muffled and bundled, and
his ’at were lopped hover his eye in a manner wot said as ’ow he didn’t
care for to have his fetoores hobserved. I wondered were he an hintimate
friend hof yours, young sir.”

“Then you did not obtain a fair look at his face, so you would know him
again if you saw him?”

“Hit’s not my fault that I didn’t, but hit were dark, and I didn’t ’ave
a fair show. I must hadmit that I would not know him if I were to meet
him face to face to-morrow.”

“Thank you again, Mrs. Bumley. That is all.”

Still she refused to take the hint.

“Singular ’ow hanybody can write on a mourning henvelope with red hink,”
she said, insinuatingly. “You don’t seem in any ’urry to hopen it.”

“I sometimes do not read my letters before retiring at night, as they
are liable to make me wakeful. Good-night, Mrs. Bumley.”

“Good-night, gentlemen,” came reluctantly from her lips. “I ’opes you
sleep well. Good-night.”

She went out, closing the door in a soft, stealthy way, which was
natural with her.

“What a prying old hen she is!” exclaimed Frank, angrily.

The door opened quickly and silently, and Mrs. Bumley thrust her head
in, cocking her crooked eye toward the boy.

“Did I ’ear you speak to me, sir?” she asked.

“No, madam! Good-night.”

“Good-night. Pleasant dreams.”

The door closed again, whereupon Frank promptly arose and locked it.

“There!” he muttered; “that will keep her out. Just take a look at this
thing, professor. It is a curiosity.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the little man, having adjusted his
spectacles and peered at the envelope. “How remarkable!”

“It is a trifle bizarre. We will see what it contains.”

He tore open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of paper which
it contained. On that sheet, written in the same scrawling backhand, the
ink being red, were these words:

“You have felt the grip! When it closes on you again it will crush out
your life! There is no escape.”

“Cæsar’s ghost!” gurgled the professor, when he had made out what was
written there. “What is the meaning of that, Frank?”

“It is a threat, but why I am threatened is more than I can understand.
Let’s make a comparison.”

Then he took from his pocket the note which he had received at the
racetrack that day, unfolded it, and placed it on the little center
table beside the one just received.

“See if you can discover a likeness in the handwriting, professor,” he
invited.

“Eh? What’s this? Where did you get this?”

Then Frank told the professor of his adventure at the Derby, much to the
little man’s astonishment and dismay.

“Dreadful!” exclaimed Scotch. “It seems to have been an attempt on your
life.”

“That’s the way it looks,” admitted the boy.

“Are you to be followed by it here? I did hope we might escape trouble
here in London! It seems that you are fated to be continually in deadly
peril!”

“Well, I must confess that I am not given time for my blood to grow
stagnant. As soon as one thing passes, another comes on.”

“It is an outrage! Why it is I am unable to say. What have you done now,
that an attempt should be made on your life?”

“That is what I would like to have you tell me.”

“It must be because you discovered the infernal machine in the House. I
can see no other explanation.”

“And that is not a satisfactory explanation, for it does not seem that
any one but a maniac or set of maniacs would hound me and attempt to
take my life because of that.”

“True, true.”

“I believe it is something more—something deeper. Look how I have been
watched by the police. And then there was that fellow at the Derby, who
gave his name as ’Arry ’Awkins. Who and what was he?”

“It is impossible to say.”

“I was intensely angry with him until he plunged into the mob and got me
out of what seemed to be a bad scrape. I could not be angry with the
fellow after that. But he did not give me an opportunity to question
him. He skipped.”

“Frank,” cried the little man, who was becoming greatly agitated, “I
believe there is but one thing for us to do.”

“What is that?”

“We should return to the United States without delay. Wherever you go,
you get into serious trouble and danger. The conditions could not have
been favorable when you started on your travels abroad.”

“Nonsense! I hope you are not as superstitious as that, professor! That
is childish, and you must know it.”

The professor stiffened up.

“Oh, very well!” he growled. “Go on to your destruction! I see you are
determined to do so. Don’t mind me. Don’t heed my advice. I am of no
consequence. I am simply your guardian, and so I do not cut any ice!”

“Easy, professor! You are getting slangy. I am inclined to be somewhat
curious, and I will admit that my curiosity is aroused. I want to solve
this mystery; I want to know just what this business means. Besides
that, Inza Burrage is somewhere in London.”

“And you might as well look for a needle in a haystack as to search for
her. You will waste your time, Frank.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I shall write home, to know if she is here, and to
obtain her address. I shall not leave London till I receive an answer to
the letter.”

Scotch flung up both hands in despair.

“Have your own way!” he groaned. “It looks as if I might take you back
to America in a coffin—if I am lucky enough to take you back at all.”

Frank laughed, seeming quite at ease, but fully settled in his mind and
determined. He fell to studying the handwriting on the two sheets of
paper before him. After a few minutes, he said:

“There is no resemblance. They were written by entirely different
persons. The first is a warning of a friendly sort; but the second came
from an enemy.”

The professor once more adjusted his spectacles and surveyed the
writing. He spent at least fifteen minutes over the two notes, and then
he straightened up, agreeing with Frank.

“You are quite right, quite right. The two notes were not written by the
same person. The first is written in an undisguised hand, but it is
plain that the writer of the second made an effort to disguise his
writing.”

“I don’t know but the police would be interested in these,” said the
boy. “I may take a notion to carry them to the police.”

“I shall not sleep a wink to-night,” declared the little man. “We must
make sure the door is secure and the windows are fastened. Even then, it
is possible we may not awaken in the morning.”

“Or if we do wake up, we may find ourselves dead, as Barney Mulloy would
say.”

“It is a very cheerful prospect—very!” groaned the little man, tramping
nervously about the room.

“Oh, don’t get excited, professor. This is nothing compared to Madam
Tussaud’s Wax Works, and you know you took me to see them, Chamber of
Horrors and all. You did not sleep well for three nights after that.”

“Boo!” cried Scotch, as he made haste to examine the window-fastenings.
“Why do you speak of such things?”

Before Scotch retired for the night, he carefully piled every chair in
the room, and the center table, against the door.

“There,” he said, with some satisfaction, “if they come in that way,
they’ll be pretty sure to awaken us.”

But they were not troubled. The night passed peacefully, and they were
aroused at the usual hour by Mrs. Bumley’s knock on the door, and her
voice informed them that it was “time to be hup.”

After breakfast, Frank decided to take a spin on his bicycle, which he
had hired for the purpose of morning exercise while in London. He got
out the polished wheel, and waved a farewell to the professor, who was
looking from the window.

It was between nine and ten when he reached one of the riding stables
near Rotten Row, and he was seized by a sudden desire to take a dash
through Hyde Park and up past Kensington Gardens, so he left his bicycle
at the stable, and obtained a horse. As he had an eye for horseflesh,
the ’ostler was not able to thrust a worthless animal upon him. He
obtained one with dash, vim and spirit, and with a mouth of iron.

The show of Rotten Row lasts from nine in the morning to eleven. Once on
a time it took place in the afternoon, but fashion has changed that. At
ten in the morning there are between six hundred and seven hundred
horses on the Row, providing the day is favorable and it is in “the
season.”

The Row is set aside for the better class. It is one of the great show
places of London.

Frank let his horse take him along at a smart canter. Fashion and wealth
were on every hand. He knew he was among the bloods of the great English
metropolis.

Suddenly he drew hard on the bit, for coming toward him were two riders
whom he recognized.

They were Inza Burrage and her companion, the flashily-dressed youth of
the day before.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXVI.

AN ENCOUNTER IN ROTTEN ROW.

In a moment they were face to face.

“Now we’ll see if she fails to recognize me,” thought Frank.

He gracefully lifted his hat.

At that instant Inza seemed to observe him for the first time. He saw
the color leave her face, and she quickly turned her head away.

It was as if a shot had been fired point-blank at Frank, and it nearly
unseated him.

There was no longer a doubt in his mind. This girl was Inza, and she had
refused to recognize him.

The boy had thought himself prepared for anything, but he discovered his
mistake, for once more he was dazed, and they had passed before he
recovered.

Then, with a fierce exclamation, he reined his horse about and followed
them.

He saw Inza lean toward her companion and say something, whereupon the
youth looked back, seeing that Frank had turned about. This fact he
communicated to the girl, and they started forward at a swifter gait.

Frank actually ground his teeth. It was quite a new experience to him to
be given the cold shoulder in such a manner, and all his nature rose up
in rebellion against such treatment from one whom he had once saved from
the teeth of a mad dog and again rescued from a frightful death beneath
the wheels of a railway locomotive.

Frank felt injured as he had never before felt in all his life. It was a
new experience for him.

“I must know her reason for this,” he muttered. “I suppose it is the
proper thing for a gentleman who receives the cut to close his mouth and
keep still about it; but I can’t do that without knowing why I was
thrown down in such a manner by her.”

And so he followed them sharply to the Hyde Park corner, where he was
close upon them. There they turned about quickly, and he stopped his
horse in front of them, again lifting his hat, and saying:

“Miss Burrage, may I have a word with you?”

The young fellow with Inza thrust his horse almost against the animal
Frank bestrode.

“Insolent fellow!” he said, through his teeth. “Permit us to pass.”

The blood surged into Frank’s face, but he held himself well in check,
his voice being hard and icy as he spoke.

“I did not address you, sir.”

“But I addressed you!”

The stranger forced his horse yet nearer, trying to drive Frank aside,
his proud face growing dark with passion.

Frank held his ground.

“Miss Burrage,” he said, with the greatest politeness, “I do not think
you will refuse me an explanation. It seems to be due me.”

She gave him one cutting, killing look with her dark eyes, and then
haughtily turned away once more, her red lips curling with scorn. This
added to Frank’s bewilderment and wonder, and it cut him like a sword
thrust.

“You have your answer, fellow,” hissed the girl’s escort. “Let us pass.”

“No!” came firmly from the lips of the American boy. “Not till I know
the reason for this! It is unjust and unkind, and I feel that an
explanation is due me.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you will not get it!”

Swish! the whip in the hand of the stranger cut through the air. He had
aimed the blow at Frank’s horse, but the Yankee lad caught the whip with
a lightning movement, and snatched it from the hand of the owner.

“Two may play at that game,” he half laughed. “With my compliments!”

Once more the whip cut the air.

Frank aimed the blow at the fellow’s shoulders, but Inza’s escort flung
up his arm to ward off the blow, so that he received the lash fairly
across the face, where it left a livid welt.

The sound of the whip frightened the girl’s horse, and the animal sprang
away, despite her efforts to hold it in check.

“The Old Nick take you!” grated Inza’s escort, with his hand to his
face. “You shall pay dearly for that blow!”

Frank was ready for anything just then, and the prospect of a duel had
no terrors for him. Indeed, it filled him with a feeling of fierce
satisfaction.

“I shall be pleased to settle with you at any time or place,” he bowed,
tossing the whip to its owner.

Then he reined about, and saw Inza’s horse bearing her away at a mad
gallop, while she struggled to hold it in check. A dog ran from the walk
and barked at the horse, filling it with greater fear, and it shied,
nearly unseating the girl.

“A runaway!” muttered Frank. “She has lost control of the creature. She
will be thrown and killed if the horse is not stopped!”

In another moment he was tearing along the Row in pursuit.

Then it was that Frank soon discovered what sort of mettle there was in
the animal he bestrode. The creature seemed to fly over the ground in a
most astonishing manner, and he soon saw he was overhauling the girl
with remarkable swiftness.

“Steady, Inza!” he called, as he came along behind her. “Keep your seat,
and I will pull the brute down in a moment.”

He forged along beside her, bent forward, grasped the bit of the
frightened animal, and then began the struggle to check the animal
without throwing the girl.

If Inza had not been in the saddle, Frank would have brought the
creature up with a round turn; but he dared not attempt such a thing,
and so he bore a steady hand on the bit of the snorting and terrified
horse, speaking soothingly and pulling the animal down at the same time.

Hundreds of spectators watched the effort, and scores expressed their
satisfaction and admiration as Frank succeeded in calming the runaway
and getting the creature well in hand.

When the boy had brought the horse to a stand, two mounted officers came
dashing up, and congratulated him on his success.

“It was well done, young sir,” said one of them. “Neither of us could
have done better, and we both have our opportunities every day.”

“It was nothing,” smiled Frank.

Then he turned to Inza, who was rather pale, but calm.

“You seem to be all right, Miss Burrage.”

She hesitated, her head drooped, and then she said:

“I am all right, thanks to you. But for you I should have been unseated.
I had quite lost control of the horse.”

“I am happy to know I have been of service to you.”

These words seemed to cut her deeply, for the warm blood sprang to her
cheeks, and she quickly said:

“It is not the first time you have saved me from injury or death. I have
much to thank you for, Mr. Merriwell.”

“Mr. Merriwell! Once you were not so formal.”

“Forgive me, Frank!” she cried, impulsively. “I know I am mean and
horrid. I had no right to treat you so, but—but——”

“Never mind explaining it here, Inza,” said the boy, swiftly, knowing
they were watched by curious eyes, and that there were listening ears
close at hand. “You may tell me later. Of course you will permit me to
call now?”

“Of course. Here, take this card. It has my address written upon it. I
shall be pleased to see you at any time.”

“This afternoon?”

“If you like.”

“I will call.”

“Very well.”

“What hour?”

“Any time after two.”

“Then you may look for me by two-thirty.”

“Put up that card. Here comes Glanworth, and I know he is in a frightful
passion. He will long to kill you.”

“Who is he?”

“My cousin. He has a dreadful temper, and he is proud as Lucifer. You
struck him. Look out for him, Frank.”

“Trust me, Inza. As he is your cousin, I shall take much from him, but
he mustn’t attempt to use his whip. That was where he made the mistake
before.”

Glanworth came up, flinging his horse on its haunches, and saying,
swiftly:

“I see this fellow has succeeded in forcing his attentions on you,
cousin. An accident gave him the opportunity. Like all Americans, he has
no idea of propriety, or even of common decency.”

Frank smiled sweetly.

“A short time ago,” he said, “it would not have been healthy for you to
have made such an observation. Then I was in anything but a pleasant
mood. Since then, things having come to my satisfaction, my mood has
changed. I shall not quarrel with you, sir.”

This seemed to add fuel to Glanworth’s anger.

“You are a blooming snob!” he fiercely exclaimed. “I do not believe you
would have the courage to meet a gentleman, anyway!”

“I might if I were forced into such an affair,” returned Frank, smiling.

“Then here—here—here is my card! I will shoot——”

“Stop, Kennington!” ordered Inza, commandingly, her hand falling on his
arm, as he was fumbling, with fluttering fingers, to extract a card from
the case he had taken from his pocket. “I forbid this! There can be no
quarrel between you two. You do not know Frank Merriwell. He is a dead
shot with rifle or pistol, and you would not stand a show.”

“Then we’d fight it out with swords.”

“And he was the champion fencer at the military school where he was
educated. He is an expert with almost every kind of a weapon, and he
could kill you in a duel, if you met.”

“Bah! He would not dare to meet me!”

But Kennington Glanworth uttered the words in a manner that showed he
was not nearly so eager to force the American lad into a duel as he had
seemed to be a short time before.

“If you think I do not dare to meet you,” said Frank, quietly, “we will
let it go at that. I am quite willing you should think so.”

“I know it,” sneered Glanworth.

“Very well. You should be well satisfied.”

Then Frank turned to Inza, to whom he spoke a few words, after which he
lifted his cap, reined about, and rode away.

He was well satisfied with the result of his adventure on Rotten Row.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXVII.

PROPERLY PUNISHED.

That afternoon Frank called on Inza in Warrington Terrace, where Bernard
Burrage was stopping.

Mr. Burrage, who was an invalid, greeted the boy pleasantly.

“I am pleased to meet you again, Mr. Merriwell,” he said. “And I thank
you for the service you rendered my daughter this forenoon. You will
pardon me if I do not rise from my chair. The old trouble, you know.”

“I hoped to see you much improved in health, Mr. Burrage,” said the boy,
with an air that stamped his words as more than superficial politeness.
“Did you not find the climate agreed with you in the Southern States?”

“Oh, it was very well in the winter; but I could not stay there in the
summer. I am afraid my search for health is vain. We have friends and
relatives here, and that is why we stopped in London. Later we shall go
to Italy, and I hope for improvement there.”

“I sincerely trust that you may not be disappointed, sir.”

Then Frank sat on a chair Inza had placed for him, and chatted agreeably
with Mr. Burrage for half an hour, speaking briefly of the countries he
had visited and of his adventures, when questioned by the invalid.

“You are a strange youth, Frank Merriwell,” declared Bernard Burrage,
regarding him with no little wonderment. “One would never know you had
seen anything of the world if he did not drag the facts from you by
questions, and I am certain it has never before been the fortune of
another youth to travel so much and meet with such adventures. We have
heard from you indirectly since Inza received your last letter, and so
we knew of your wonderful experiences as king of a cannibal island and
in search of the ‘missing link’ in the wilds of Africa.”

“Heard from me?” exclaimed Frank, in surprise. “How?”

“Through Elsie Bellwood,” said Inza, quietly. “She wrote me.”

Frank started, overwhelmed by a sudden thought. Just what had Elsie
written Inza? The girls had been warm friends, and, after being rescued
from the island of cannibals, Frank had been much with Elsie on Captain
Bellwood’s trading vessel.

In the world there were two girls whom Frank Merriwell admired above all
others, and it seemed that his friendship for one was quite as strong as
for the other. They were Inza Burrage and Elsie Bellwood.

In the company of either of these girls Frank seemed to forget the other
for the time. They were vastly different in appearance and temperament,
although both were remarkably pretty. Inza had dark hair and eyes, while
her disposition was passionate and resentful. Elsie had sunny hair and
blue eyes, and her disposition was gentle and trusting.

In an honest, boyish way, Frank had made love to both of these girls. He
had tried to make both understand that he did not contemplate marriage
for years to come, and that he did not bind them by any vows or pledges.
He was young, they were young; the years to come might bring many
changes.

Surely this was honest and manly, and anything further would have been
folly between mere boys and girls.

But both girls regarded him as the greatest hero in all the wide world,
and, girl-like, both thought they could never, never, never care for
another fellow as they cared for him. Inza would have promised to marry
him—some time—if he had asked her; but that was something he had
avoided, knowing such boy-and-girl vows were seldom kept.

Elsie was so conscientious that she had thought it wrong to accept more
than the simplest attentions from Frank. She had thought it would be
betraying her friend.

Frank had laughed at her. In the Florida swamps he had saved her from
kidnapers, and in Africa he had rescued her from a gorilla. After such
experiences it would have been most remarkable had their friendship
continued simple and prosaic. It would not have been human, and, for all
of his unusual qualities and accomplishments, Frank was human.

But now he fancied he understood why Inza had treated him as she had
when they met in London. Elsie—dear, honest little Elsie—had written her
friend about Frank, and all Inza’s passionate jealousy had been aroused.

Frank looked at Inza, and she gave him something like an accusing
glance. Then he knew he had hit upon the truth.

“Yes,” said Mr. Burrage, without observing the glances which passed
between the boy and girl, “Inza and Elsie are such warm friends, you
know. Elsie was very enthusiastic about you.”

“Very,” said Inza.

After a time, Mr. Burrage seemed tired, and the boy and girl fell to
chatting by the window, while the invalid dozed in the easy-chair.

“Poor father!” said the girl. “It does not take much to tire him now.”

“And still he seems improved since I saw him in New Orleans.”

“Oh, he is; he is much better, else he would not have been able to take
the voyage across.”

There was a little silence. Mr. Burrage’s eyes were closed, and he was
breathing heavily and regularly.

“We must speak low,” whispered the girl. “Let him rest.”

“Yes, let him rest,” said Frank, drawing his chair nearer to her. “And
now tell me about yourself, Inza.”

“I didn’t know as you would care to ever hear anything about me again,”
she murmured, and he saw the warm color creep up into her cheeks.

“What nonsense, Inza! Is that why you cut me yesterday, and again
to-day, on the Row?”

“N-no.”

“Why was it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That is—I——”

She stopped in confusion, her face crimson now. She did not wish to make
the confession.

Frank secured her hand. She tried to draw it away, but he did not permit
her to succeed. He leaned toward her, whispering:

“I will tell you why it was, Inza. Elsie Bellwood wrote you something
you did not like. Ah, I am right!”

“Something I did not like?” she repeated, attempting an evasion. “Why,
Elsie is my dearest friend. Even if she did write something I did not
like, how could that affect us?”

Frank laughed softly.

“Inza, tell me the truth,” he urged. “Of course there was a reason why
you treated me so.”

With a sudden toss of her head, she looked him straight in the eyes,
something more than a suggestion of defiance in her manner.

“Well, suppose that Elsie did write something I did not like. What was
it? Tell me that.”

“And tell you something you already know. I do not believe Elsie
Bellwood would write anything that was not strictly true. You know I was
with her on Captain Bellwood’s vessel for a long time, and Elsie is one
of my dearest friends.”

“Nothing more?”

“No, nothing more than a dear friend.”

“But she says she loves you—she did say it! And she told how you were
together, and how you—you kissed her! She said she knew it was wrong all
the time, but she did care for you so much. And she asked me to forgive
her.”

“Bless her honest little heart!” smiled Frank. “And did she tell you
that we had agreed to tell you everything?”

“Yes.”

“And you were jealous?”

“Yes.”

“And you resolved never to have anything to do with me again?”

“Yes. I vowed over and over that I would never, never speak to you
again.”

“But you have.”

“How could I help it? You stopped my horse; perhaps you saved me from
being killed. I had to thank you.” And then, with a sudden change of
manner, she went on: “I am not going to be foolish, Frank; Elsie is a
splendid girl. I tell you, I will be one of the bridesmaids, and you
must have a swell wedding.”

Frank held in check the laughter that bubbled to his lips.

“You would make a charming bridesmaid, Inza; but you would look better
as the bride. However, we will not consider that now. Neither of us
should think seriously of such matters for years. Perhaps I may have the
opportunity to stand as best man for Kennington Glanworth when you are
married—if he does not kill me in a duel.”

“What nonsense, Frank! He is my cousin.”

“Once or twice removed?”

“Oh, I believe he is a second cousin.”

“In that case, I see nothing to prevent the union. Bless you, my
children, bless you.”

“You are a bigger tease than ever. Kennington has been very kind to me
since we came to London, that is all. He aided me in trying to avoid
you, like the good fellow he is. You must not blame him. I was to
blame.”

“Then you should be punished.”

“Be careful, sir! I know you are very daring, but——”

“Oh, you want to beg off. Well, you cannot. The more I think of the
matter, the stronger becomes my conviction that you should be severely
punished.”

He leaned toward her, looking very severe. He still held her hand firmly
within his grasp.

“Be careful,” she warned. “Father may awaken.”

“But not in time to save you from your punishment,” he whispered, and
then he kissed her.

They sat by the window and chatted a long time, while Mr. Burrage dozed
in his chair.

Finally there came the sound of a stir in the hall and on the stairs.
Excited voices were heard; a man’s and a woman’s.

“It is the landlady,” said Inza. “She seems to be having trouble with
somebody. I never heard anything like that in this house before.”

“I tell you I knows the gent,” asserted the voice of a man; a voice
which sounded familiar to Frank. “It is a matter of business, and I will
see ’im. I hobserved ’im a-settin’ at the window.”

“Wait till I speak to him,” entreated the woman. “If he knows you, it is
likely he will see you.”

“I am not habsolutely certain of that, ma’am. It is a matter of
business, ma’am—werry important. I will go right hin.”

And then, for all of the protests of the landlady, a man entered the
room, flinging open the door with no little violence.

Frank sprang up and faced the intruder while Inza uttered a little cry,
and retreated a bit. The sleeping invalid awoke, and stared at the
newcomer in a bewildered way.

It was Mr. ’Arry ’Awkins, of Deptford. He had put aside his loud suit of
Scotch plaids, and was plainly dressed in well-worn clothes. His face
was cleanly shaved, but seemed to be somewhat flushed, as if he had been
indulging freely in stimulating drinks.

“Mr. Merriwell, sir!” he said, removing his hat and bowing profoundly.
“I thought as ’ow I were not mistooked; I were werry certain it were you
I saw a-settin’ at the window.”

At first Frank was inclined to be decidedly angry, but he immediately
remembered the great service Mr. ’Awkins had rendered him when he was in
mysterious and possibly deadly danger at the Derby, and he held his
anger in check, saying, sharply:

“You should not have forced yourself in here, sir. These are not my
rooms, but I happen to be making a call here.”

The man from Deptford bowed most humbly.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, young sir,” he said, “I must say as ’ow I did not
know of that. I ’opes yer will hexcuse me, governor and young miss. You
see it is this here way, I didn’t know this were not young Mr.
Merriwell’s room, and so I set myself to come, for all of the missus
outside.”

“This is a most unwarranted intrusion!” came rather sharply from Mr.
Burrage’s lips. “If you have pressing business——”

“Hexactly, sir—hexactly,” said Mr. ’Awkins, still more humbly. “My
business is with young Mr. Merriwell. I will state it hat once, and make
it werry short.”

“Do so,” urged Frank, who regretted that his _tête-à-tête_ with Inza had
been interrupted in such a manner.

“You see, I knowed they were for robbing you, young sir, at the Derby.
It were your scarfpin they were after, and that were why they took to
shovin’ you so. Says I to myself, says I, ‘Now there’s a fine young gent
from hover the pond, and he does not know the way of the rascals, and he
will lose heverythink.’ So I rushed into them, sir, and I took hout your
scarfpin quick, so nobody helse would get it, and I pulled you haway, so
it were possible you could get hout with your purse, which you had said
you never carried.”

Having made this remarkable statement, Mr. ’Awkins displayed the
scarfpin, which Frank had missed when he undressed the night before.

“Hallow me to return this here beautiful and waluable little pin to you,
sir,” said the man from Deptford; “and hallow me to hexpress the ’ope
that you did not lose hanything helse.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE EXPLOSION.

Frank fancied he saw through the rascal’s guile, and yet he could not
repress a smile, for surely Mr. ’Awkins was very slick about it. The boy
believed he now understood why the fellow had appeared so extremely
solicitous for his safety when he saw him hustled by the mob. ’Awkins
had spotted the pin in conversation with Frank, and he had improved an
excellent opportunity to obtain possession of it.

It was quite likely that ’Awkins had overestimated the value of the pin,
which was not worth more than four or five dollars, and had been quite
disappointed when he tried to dispose of it. He had not parted with it
for the price offered by the “fence” to whom he had taken it, and,
seeing Frank in the window, he had suddenly conceived the scheme of
returning it, as if that had been his intention all along.

“You are extremely clever,” said the boy, as he quickly took the pin
from the man’s hand, observing with surprise that Mr. ’Awkins gave it up
readily without demanding a reward before parting with it; “but I think
you overstepped yourself this time.”

“’Ow is that, young sir?”

“I am not going to pay you for snatching my scarfpin, now that I have it
in my possession.”

“As you consider right and proper, young sir,” bowed the man, very
humbly. “I hassure you as ’ow it is a pleasure to be hable to protect
the hinnocent from the wultures who try to pluck them. That is reward
henough for ’Arry ’Awkins, of Deptford.”

Frank was forced to laugh.

“I must say you are very modest in your demands.”

“Modesty is one of my chief wirtooes, sir. If I were not so werry modest
I might be a rich man now.”

“You might, if you escaped prison; but you would have to take desperate
chances on that.”

“And is this the way you thanks me for saving your pin, sir!” came
reproachfully from Mr. ’Awkins. “Well,” he sighed, “it is hoften thus.”

He pretended to wipe some moisture from the corner of his eye with a
high-colored handkerchief. He was in no hurry about leaving, and it
seemed plain that he still lingered with the hope of receiving something
for his “honesty.”

“If you would give me your haddress, young sir, I might be hinduced to
call at your rooms to-morrow,” he said. “It may be as ’ow you will look
at this matter in a werry different light hafter a bit, sir.”

“I scarcely think it is probable, and you may save yourself the trouble
of calling on me. Good-day, Mr. ’Awkins.”

“Good-day, sir,” said the man from Deptford, but he did not make a move
to go.

“There is no reason why you should remain longer,” said Frank, in a
businesslike manner. “You may go.”

“Werry well. Mabe as ’ow I ’ad better leave my haddress, in case you
should change your mind.”

“You may save yourself the trouble.”

“It is ’ard to be wrongly judged, sir, but it is hoften the way in this
world. Good-day, young sir.”

Mr. ’Awkins seemed to give up in despair, and he was about to leave the
room when something of a startling nature happened.

There was a crash of glass, and an object came through the window and
landed on the floor within three feet of Frank Merriwell.

A single glance was enough to show the boy what the object was, for a
smoking, burning fuse was attached to it!

Inza uttered a cry of terror, while her father exclaimed:

“What is it?”

“A bomb!” gasped ’Arry ’Awkins.

“A bomb!” echoed Frank.

The fuse was very short, and the spark of fire was swiftly eating toward
the deadly ball.

Without hesitation, Frank caught up the spluttering thing and sprang
toward the broken window with it in his hand!

It was a quick-witted, daring and nervy act—the act of a boy whose brain
seemed to work with lightning rapidity, and whose hand was scarcely
slower than his brain.

The window was reached, and with all his strength the lad flung the
thing through the jagged opening in the glass.

It made a sweeping curve through the air, struck the ground and
exploded.

The detonation was terrific. A mass of earth, paving stones, fire and
smoke leaped upward from the place where the bomb struck, and there was
a jangling crash of glass from hundreds of windows, while the buildings
near at hand seemed to stagger and reel.

Frank was hurled back from the window by the force of the explosion and
flung, breathless and benumbed to the floor.

But he had saved his own life and that of three other persons.

That a deliberate, desperate and dastardly attempt had been made upon
the lives of Frank Merriwell and those with him in that room was
certain. That all had escaped through Frank’s quick-witted and nervy
action was little short of a marvel.

During the excitement and confusion that followed the explosion, ’Arry
’Awkins disappeared. When investigating parties came to search for him,
he could not be found.

That the bomb was thrown into that room at all was not known save by
those in the room till they told of it themselves. It was believed at
first that the bomb had been purposely exploded in the street.

When Frank leaped to the window with the deadly thing in his hand he saw
a man running away as fast as his legs could carry him. No more than a
fleeting glimpse did the boy obtain of the man, who turned his head to
look over his shoulder just as he darted around a corner.

When it was all over, Frank thought of this man.

“He threw the bomb,” was the lad’s immediate decision.

Then he tried to remember just how this man had looked, and he fancied
he would know the fellow if he should see him again.

Mr. Burrage was prostrated by the excitement, but he weakly expressed
his admiration for the boy who had saved their lives by his quick and
daring action.

Inza, brave little girl, did her best to soothe her agitated parent, but
when she would have begged Frank to remain with them a little while she
found the boy was gone.

Frank’s first thought was to pursue the man he had seen running away,
but when he reached the corner beyond which the fellow had vanished he
saw how useless it would be to look for the rascal.

A crowd of excited persons had gathered in the street, and the police
came in a deliberate hurry, after the manner of London officers.

Frank returned to Inza and her father.

“Oh, you brave, noble fellow!” cried the girl, hugging him, impulsively.
“You saved us from being killed!”

“It is true,” said Mr. Burrage, faintly. “It was a wonderfully brave
action. But why was that bomb thrown in here?”

“That is a question I cannot answer,” confessed the boy; “but I mean to
know. You have no enemies in London who would attempt to kill you?”

“None in all the world that I know.”

“Then it must be that the attempt was made to destroy me.”

“But why should such a terrible thing be done?”

“That is a mystery. Several mysterious things have happened of late, and
I will know the meaning of them before I leave London.”

“Have you enemies, Frank?”

“I should say so; but I did not know that any of them were in this city.
Wherever I have gone I have made enemies. It seems to be my fate to make
bitter enemies or firm friends of everybody I meet. At school it was
thus, and it has been the same since I left school. In South America,
Africa, France and Spain I made enemies who would not have hesitated at
anything to injure or destroy me. And now they seem to be thicker than
ever here in London.”

“Oh, Frank!” cried Inza, “you will be killed some time. I know you
will!”

“My enemies have made so many failures that I am encouraged to think
myself almost invulnerable.”

“You are brave and you are fortunate, but you cannot always escape. Some
time they will get the best of you.”

“That will be when my ‘time’ has arrived. You see I have become a
fatalist. I do not believe anybody will die till their ‘time’ comes.”

“It is very nice to believe that—if you can,” said the invalid; “but I
cannot accept such a belief. What will you do about this dastardly
attempt at murder?”

“I shall tell all I know to the police; but I doubt if they will be able
to accomplish anything. In the dynamite outrages, years ago, they were
quite impotent. It may be that those outrages are to be resumed. And it
is possible that I have incurred the enmity of the scoundrels who are in
the business by my discovery of the infernal machine in the House of
Parliament.”

Neither Mr. Burrage nor Inza had heard of this, and so he told them all
about it. Then the police came to investigate, and were told exactly
what had happened.

Had it been in the United States, a dozen reporters would have been on
hand by that time; but Frank saw no reporters for at least an hour.

Frank could not suspect ’Arry ’Awkins of being connected in any way with
the person who threw the bomb, for the man from Deptford had been placed
in deadly peril by the thing.

It seemed that Mr. ’Awkins had been badly frightened, and had improved
the opportunity to get away without delay.

When Frank returned to his rooms that evening he was able to tell
Professor Scotch a yarn that threw the little man into a state of great
consternation.

“This settles it!” he declared. “We’ll leave London immediately.”

“Not on your life!” returned the boy, emphatically. “Think I am going to
run away without knowing what all this racket means? Not much!”

“It is suicidal to remain!” shouted the professor. “I shall force you to
go!”

“You will have a jolly time doing it.”

“This is outrageous! I suppose you would insist on remaining here if you
knew you would be blown up!”

“Not quite. Let’s sit down and talk this matter over sensibly. Come now.
I want to explain why I am not going to be driven away.”

After a time, the boy induced Scotch to sit down and listen. He then
explained that in case such determined and desperate efforts had been
made against his life, it was not likely he could escape his enemies
simply by leaving London. They did not seem to be the kind of enemies
who would be baffled so easily; but they would follow, and they might
find a much better and safer place for them to do their terrible design
than in the heart of crowded London.

The professor advised slipping out of London secretly and in disguise,
if necessary; but Frank ridiculed such a thing, saying it might throw
the suspicions of the police upon them.

“And you know I have been watched by the police for some time. It is
likely they are still keeping me under surveillance, and they might
arrest us both as suspicious characters if we tried to skip in disguise.
It won’t do, professor.”

The professor groaned.

“Between the police and bomb-throwers, we are in a decidedly pleasant
predicament,” he said, huskily.

And so it came about that they remained in London.

For two days after the explosion nothing of importance occurred.

Frank visited Mr. Burrage and Inza both days. Once he strolled with her
in Kensington Gardens, and they spent a pleasant afternoon together.

London by night had a fascination for Frank. Although it was seldom he
could induce the professor to accompany him, he often rode or strolled
about the city.

With his usual fearlessness, Frank resolved to visit the East End, even
though he had been warned not to do so, and the professor had ordered
him to keep away.

The region of the Whitechapel murders had a strong fascination for
Frank. Once he visited the section by day, and he was astonished and
appalled by the degradation and dirt he saw there. The alleys were dark
and filthy, and squalor reigned supreme.

But Frank was determined to see the quarter by night, and on the
Saturday evening after the explosion, he dressed himself in shabby
clothes, so he would not attract attention, and proceeded to the East
End.

Petticoat Lane attracted him, and thither he went. He found the place
divided into three thoroughfares, made by two rows of handcarts, drays,
and booths arranged along each gutter.

Everything was for sale there, and there was a great crowd of wretched,
ill-clothed, poverty-stamped human beings passing along the lanes
between the handcarts.

The hucksters were shouting their wares and abusing each other
mercilessly. They called each other cheats, robbers and jailbirds, and
seemed to consider it a part of the regular order of business. They
swore at each other, but they did not come to blows.

One man accused another of murdering his father in order to get the old
man’s clothes to sell. At this the other laughed and cried:

“Never mind that liar hover there. ’E takes that way to get rid of his
old cholera blankets what he has robbed from ’ospitals. Of course ’e
sells ’em cheap; they didn’t cost him nothink. Go on an’ buy his old
blankets an’ ketch the cholera.”

Frank made his way into Petticoat Lane, and then wandered into other
streets. On all the well-lighted streets were cars lighted by oil lamps,
and hucksters trying to sell their goods.

The laborers, having been paid off, were out in force, and it seemed
that they had been drinking to a man. Some were noisy and merry, while
some were sullen and bent on fighting.

The public houses were open on all sides, blazing with gas and
glittering with mirrors and filled with drinking men and women. Frank
could never accustom himself to the bold abandon with which women walked
into groggeries and took their drinks with the men.

Sausages and fish were cooking in the small fish houses, where the great
wide front windows were open, allowing to escape rays of smoky light and
the odor of burning fat.

He saw stout, respectable workingmen’s wives, with great baskets on
their arms, who were out to do their shopping at the markets and stores.

He saw trembling, drink-besotted hags and starving, wild-eyed young men,
the faces of the latter often marked by the most hideous of evil
purposes, murder in their eyes.

It was a place full of flaring lights and inky shadows, and the boy felt
that he could never forget what he saw there. The faces of the starving
youths made the deepest impression on him, and he wondered if there were
such faces to be seen elsewhere in the world. They were hopeless,
brutal, despairing.

He saw dockers and drunken sailors, and he saw thin-limbed, dirty
children with the faces of old men and women.

At last, sick at heart, Frank decided that he had seen enough. He turned
his face toward the West End.

But he had not gone far before he halted suddenly, with a muttered
exclamation.

He looked fairly into the face of a man who was passing, and he fancied
he had seen that face before.

“I believe it is the fellow who threw the bomb!” exclaimed the boy,
softly.

And he started to follow the man.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXIX.

SURPRISES FOR FRANK.

It was not the first time Frank had played the part of a shadower.

He believed he had not been observed by the person he was following, and
he took care not to let the man suspect that there was a tracker behind
him.

The man led Frank straight to one of the lowest music halls in the great
city.

Frank did not hesitate to enter the place, and he paid the small
admission price.

The hall was packed with men, but not a woman was to be seen, save on
the stage, where a girl in short dresses was singing in a high-pitched
key, accompanied by a miserable orchestra.

The men had brought bottles of bitter ale with them. Some had brought
fried soles, wrapped in paper.

They were eating the soles, and drinking from the bottles.

The seats were long benches without arms. From the ends of these benches
spectators were frequently shoved into the aisles, causing no end of
amusement.

The men who were thus pushed from their seats seldom or never took
offense; but they arose and pounded in the face and ribs of the ones who
had taken their places, which they generally recovered.

To Frank’s astonishment, several of these impromptu battles were taking
place when he entered. In America the parties thus engaged would have
been promptly ejected, or there must have ensued a general riot in a
very short time.

But the singer on the stage did not seem to mind it, the orchestra
continued to inflict its torture, and the show went on as if nothing of
consequence was happening, which was true.

Frank slipped into a seat in a corner, and looked around for the man he
had shadowed.

The fellow was not far away, and he was talking in a low tone to a man
who was sitting beside him.

After a few moments, Frank obtained a fair look at this man’s face.

He came near uttering a great shout of astonishment.

The face was familiar to him, but it seemed that it must be the face of
a dead man.

“I am mistaken,” muttered the excited boy. “It cannot be! That man was
blown into a thousand pieces!”

Breathlessly, he leaned forward, and he heard the man distinctly utter
some words in French.

At the same time, he once more saw the man’s face fairly.

He fell back, dazed and bewildered, faintly gasping:

“It is Emile Durant, or his ghost!”

Frank looked again. He could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes,
and yet——

“I cannot be mistaken. That fellow is the red-handed wretch, Emile
Durant. And he is here in London. His companion at this moment is the
man I believe threw the bomb in Warrington Terrace.”

It did not take the boy long to put things together, and he began to
understand the meaning of the mysterious attacks upon his life.

Durant hated Frank with undying hatred. He had seen the boy in London,
and he had determined that Merriwell must die. It was possible that the
first attempt on Frank’s life had been made in the Houses of Parliament.
The infernal machine had been placed there to kill him, if possible,
with the others who were expected to perish in the general destruction.

Another attempt had been made at the Derby, and it now seemed that it
had been thwarted by ’Arry ’Awkins.

The third attempt had been made in Warrington Terrace.

Frank felt that the first warning he had received must have come from a
friendly source. The writing was entirely different from that which was
written in red ink and delivered after the Derby.

And now that he had found out one of his foes, who could have sent him
the friendly warning?

Surely not ’Arry ’Awkins, the illiterate tout and skillful sneak-thief.
That was not to be thought of for a moment. Frank wondered if Durant had
traced him to London, or if the anarchist had fled from Paris, and had
come upon him by accident in the English capital.

Frank knew he could have no more unscrupulous and deadly enemy than
Emile Durant, who seemed to have become an anarchist because he knew it
would afford him an opportunity to glut his thirst for bloodshed,
destruction and ruin.

Frank had ever fancied that, to a certain extent, anarchists were
governed by a mistaken and distorted belief that they were patriots
whose mission it was to slaughter and destroy the rich and powerful and
overturn the existing governments, in order that the poor, the weak and
the oppressed might be given a fair and even show in the world.

He had never looked with the slightest favor on anarchy, but he had
sometimes felt sympathy for the misguided wretches who believed the
cause just.

But he could feel no sympathy for such a creature as Emile Durant, and
he wondered that even the anarchists could call such a wretch brother,
and accept him as a leader.

The bomb-thrower with Durant understood French, but spoke it
imperfectly. It was evident they were conversing in that language so
that they might not be understood by those around them.

Frank would have given much to hear what passed, but he could catch only
a word now and then.

Then came another surprise for the boy.

Sitting close to the two men, and leaning against the wall, was a man
who seemed to be in a drunken slumber.

It was ’Arry ’Awkins!

“Is it possible that he is a greater rascal than I thought, and one of
the gang?” was the question Frank put to himself.

A roughly-dressed young fellow came in and looked around. After a time,
he sighted Durant and the bomb-thrower. Immediately he approached them.

Then came the crowning surprise of all.

This person was none other than the stylish and supposed-to-be
aristocratic Kennington Glanworth!

Glanworth knew the men, and he spoke to them. He sat down beside them,
and Frank edged a little nearer.

Then the listening boy heard Glanworth soundly berating the
bomb-thrower. The young man had been drinking, and he was very angry.

Glanworth seemed to be furious because the bomb had been thrown into the
rooms occupied by Mr. Burrage and Inza.

“You ought to be hanged, Linton, for that little piece of business!” he
snarled, glaring at the bomb-thrower.

Linton protested that he had not the least idea who occupied the rooms,
and declared that his only object had been to “dispose of the boy.”

“You are a bungler at best,” growled Glanworth; “and you should not be
intrusted with such jobs.”

Then Durant warned them to lower their voices, and Frank could not
understand what followed.

But the boy had heard quite enough, and he wondered if he could find
policemen near at hand and bring them down on the three villains.

His own position was one of extreme peril, as he very well knew.

“I must get out at once,” he decided. “It would be all up with me if I
were seen and recognized by one of that trio.”

Then the very thing which he feared happened, for Kennington Glanworth
turned squarely about, saw him, and recognized him!

Glanworth leaped to his feet, as if struck by a red-hot arrow.

“A thousand fiends!” he grated. “It is Merriwell!”

“I had better hustle,” muttered Frank, as he sprang toward the door.

“Stop him!” shouted Glanworth. “Stop that fellow!”

“Hall right, my ’earty,” said a big ruffian, placing himself in Frank’s
path. “Has ’e snatched somethink?”

He reached out to grasp the boy.

Frank ducked, avoided the hand, arose quickly, and struck the big man on
the chin with terrific force.

It sounded as if the man’s jaw cracked when the fist of the boy landed,
and the big fellow was fairly lifted off his feet by the blow.

The man fell on his back, and Frank leaped over his body, darting out by
the door, and dived around the corner into a dark alley.

His enemies were not far behind, but he was congratulating himself on
escaping them, when, of a sudden, he felt himself clutched by hands of
Titanic strength.

He had been caught from behind, and he tried to squirm about to defend
himself.

He was astounded by the wonderful strength of his unknown assailant, for
he seemed like a child in the hands of this person.

“Let go!” panted the boy.

There was no response, but a hand crept up and fastened itself on
Frank’s throat—a hand that was cold, clammy and deathlike.

For a moment Frank seemed paralyzed with horror. He had felt that touch
before, and he knew it well.

It was the grip of doom!

He had been warned that when the icy hand closed on him again it would
crush out his life.

“I must break away!” was his one thought.

He fought with desperate energy, trying to tear that deadly grasp from
his throat, for the chilling fingers had stopped his breathing and were
choking him to death.

It seemed that the bones in his neck cracked beneath the frightful
pressure, and that those terrible fingers must crush through flesh and
sinew.

Horrible pains darted through his chest, which seemed on the point of
bursting. There was a great roaring in his head, upon which he fancied
the blows of a great hammer were falling.

Then a bright glare of light flared before his eyes, as if the whole of
London had taken fire in an instant.

The roaring in his head was like some mighty Niagara. The light died to
appalling darkness, and flared forth again, changing to a hundred
colors.

Everything began to whirl around and around, following which he thought
himself on a railroad train.

“This is strange,” he thought. “Never before have I traveled on a train
that could make such speed. We must be covering more than a hundred
miles an hour. It is decidedly jolly.”

No longer did he struggle. He lay supine and helpless in the grasp of
the dreaded being with the death-cold hands.

In a moment it seemed that he had left the train and lay reclining on a
barge of flowers that was floating down a sun-kissed river into the blue
haze of the distance.

He felt quite at ease, and the perfume of the flowers was most
delightful. Amid the flowers bees were humming and butterflies were
flitting.

Looking forward, he saw that where the blue haze lay the river broadened
to a great bay. The haze became bluer and blacker, until it lay on the
bosom of the water like a pall.

Then, for the first time, he observed in the boat a grim, stern-faced
old man who was guiding the craft.

“Where are you taking me?” asked the boy.

The old man made no reply in words, but he lifted his hand and pointed
toward the eternal darkness that lay heavy and impenetrable on the
surface of the water.

“It is Charon, the grim boatman,” thought Frank, “and he is ferrying me
over the Styx. This is death!”

They floated onward, and with the darkness came sleep—a cold, chilling,
but peaceful slumber.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXX.

A DELECTABLE TRIO.

Horrible pains, cold, heat, burning thirst, a choking sensation, a
frantic desire to draw a deep breath, to move, to cry out—all these
Frank felt.

Was it possible he still lived?

He asked himself the question, for the belief that he was dead seemed to
have fixed itself upon him.

Then came the impression that he was indeed dead, and that he was
suffering the tortures of the damned.

But what had he done in life to merit such torment? He had ever tried to
be honest and square, to treat all men justly, and to injure no one who
let him alone. In life he had even fancied himself something of a
Christian in his way.

And he had been condemned, like the vilest sinner, to eternal torment?

He would not believe a Supreme Being could do such a thing, and so, for
all of the agony he was enduring, he began to think that he still lived.

Then he heard voices near at hand. At first the words were jumbled and
unintelligible, but after a time he could make out some things which
were said.

He breathed, but every breath caused him the most acute pains, the most
indescribable torment.

It seemed that his windpipe was raw from one end to the other, and the
air which he drew through it was liquid fire.

Then came the thought that he might be in deadly danger still and,
although it cost him terrible torture, he remained in the same fixed
position, making no move to ease his cramped limbs and aching body.

He seemed to recognize some of the voices he heard, but it was a long
time before he could connect the voices with their owners.

At last, however, he made out that one of the speakers was Emile Durant,
the fierce-eyed anarchist from Paris.

Another speaker was Kennington Glanworth, and Frank heard this fellow
saying:

“Of course it is a decidedly unpleasant piece of business, but the
blooming fool would have made us no end of trouble.”

“Ha! Zat ees right,” said Durant. “I know zat boy in Paree. He was one
wondare.”

“Well, he is done for now,” said another voice. “Luptus finished him
this time. It does not take the dummy long to end them when he gets
those icy hands of his on their throats.”

“He is one dev-val!” cried Durant. “He would keel his own moder for a
dreenk.”

“Such a job as this is not likely to meet the approval of our friends,”
said Glanworth. “Some of them might denounce us if they knew. I will
confess that I am rather scared myself.”

“Scare!” cried the French anarchist. “Bah! What you scare for? You must
haf ze nerfe. What eef you was tole to blow up ze Tower? You may be set
to do zat job some time.”

“That would be different. It would be for the cause to which I am
pledged.”

“Eet would be more dangare than zis job, and you deed not do zis.”

“Still I was willing it should be done, and that——”

“Ees notting. All zat make me feel bad ees zat I deed not keel zat boy
myself. I hate heem—_mon Dieu_! how I hate heem! He be ze ruain of ze
brozarehood in Paree.”

“And he stood between me and one I care for very much,” declared
Glanworth. “Since she met him here in London she has scarcely been civil
to me, and we were fast becoming more than friends and cousins before
that.”

“Let ze girls alone,” advised the Frenchman. “Zat ees what I tell all
zot work for ze int’res’ of ze people. Woman she all ze time get man
into trouble.”

“You know why I am one of you,” said Glanworth. “My father labored for
the cause till he was banished. If proof could have been brought against
him, he would have been imprisoned, but suspicion was not proof, and so
he was banished. Poor father! He died in America, still laboring for our
glorious cause.”

By this time Frank was able to open his eyes. He did so cautiously, and
he saw the trio seated at a table, on which was a bottle of whiskey and
glasses. The third man, whose voice he had not recognized, was the
bomb-thrower.

“They think me dead,” flashed through the boy’s mind. “Perhaps it will
be the best for me to continue to play dead.”

He maintained perfect silence, for all that he was cramped and aching in
all parts of his body.

He had been thrown down in the corner of the wretched room, which was
miserably furnished, the floors and walls being bare.

The men at the table filled their glasses and drank, Durant offering a
toast to the success of their cause.

“This body must be disposed of,” said Glanworth, casting a glance toward
the huddled form in the corner, and shuddering.

“Luptus will attend to that,” assured the bomb-thrower.

“It must not be removed from here till long after midnight.”

“Of course not. We will take no chances of being seen.”

“What is to be done with it?”

“It is to be sewed in a bag and sunk in the river.”

“Well, that is decidedly pleasant information!” thought the supposed
dead boy.

Frank knew he was weak and helpless, therefore in no condition to battle
with his enemies. There was little hope for him to escape.

“I suppose one of us had better remain here and watch the body till
Luptus comes for it,” said the bomb-thrower.

“Bah! No need of zat,” growled Durant. “He ees dead.”

“Yes, but——”

“Put ze body in ze odare room, and lock ze door. Nobodee find eet zare.
Zere ees no blood to make zem look.”

“That is a good plan,” nodded Glanworth, who did not relish the idea of
being left alone with a corpse, in case it might fall to his lot.

Durant arose.

“He will make no noises to disturb anybodee.” said the little anarchist.
“He weel nevare disturb anybodee again.”

“We’ll see about that,” thought Frank. “I may still be able to create
quite a disturbance for you.”

Durant walked over and kicked Frank in a vicious manner.

“Littul dev-val!” he snarled. “Where ees Montparnasse, Lenoir, Vaugirad,
Verlain and Novesky? Blown to ten thousand pieces, and all by you! I
swear I would leeve to see you dead, and now I haf kept zat pledge.”

Frank longed to leap up and grapple with the little wretch, but he
remained perfectly quiet, as if not a spark of life remained in his
body.

“What’s the use to kick him?” said the bomb-thrower. “He can’t feel you
now. He is finished. Let him alone.”

“I’d like to haf heem feel me for one leettul minute!” grated Durant, as
he gave the boy another brutal kick.

“Come, come,” said Glanworth. “What’s the good of that! Pick him up and
dump him in the back room. I’ll unlock the door.”

He did so.

“Take hold,” ordered Linton, the bomb-thrower.

“I don’t want to touch him,” shivered Glanworth, drawing back, as if
still afraid of Frank. “Two of you are enough.”

“I am enough for zat job,” declared Durant, as he caught the
supposed-to-be dead boy by the heels and dragged him across the floor.

Frank permitted himself to be dragged in this manner, like a sack of
flour. Having hauled the boy into the dark little back room, Durant let
his heels drop to the floor with a thump.

“Stay zere till you are taken out to sink to ze bottom of ze river,”
growled the malicious little Frenchman, as he turned and left the room.

The door closed, the key rattled in the lock, the bolt turned with a
rusty, grating sound, and Frank was a captive in that stuffy little
room. Listening, he heard the footsteps of his enemies die out in the
distance.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE DOOMED.

Frank sat up. To do so caused him a mighty effort, and he groaned with
pain, while his head became giddy, and he feared that he would faint.

“You’ve got to brace up, old man,” he hoarsely muttered. “This is for
your very life. You may be able to escape.”

He touched his throat, and cried out with pain. His breath seemed to
whistle in his windpipe, while his heart fluttered and stopped, and
acted in a most unnatural manner.

“I am badly broken up,” he thought. “Never felt just like this before.
Can’t seem to get into shape.”

He sought the wall, found it, placed his back against it, and there he
sat in the darkness, limp as a rag, weak as a kitten, wondering if his
strength would ever return.

It was well that his enemies did not reappear just then. He might have
struggled to his feet and fought in a feeble manner, but he would have
been easily overpowered.

Frank had a mighty will. He resolved to recover his strength, knowing
how much he needed it just then, and slowly, little by little, it came
back to him.

They had said that Luptus would return and dispose of him. Who was
Luptus? Was he the fearful being with the death-cold hands? If so, Frank
feared him more than all of the other three.

There was something mysterious and terrible about the possessor of those
hands. That he should possess such marvelous strength and such icy hands
seemed inexplicable.

Frank was not naturally revengeful, but he felt that he owed it to
society, as well as to himself, to live and bring to punishment Emile
Durant and his companions in crime.

After a time he got upon his feet and found the door, which he tried to
open.

It was indeed locked.

With his hand against the wall, he felt his way around the room.

He came to a curtain, which he quickly stripped aside, and beyond the
curtain was a window.

A low exclamation of satisfaction came from his lips.

“If this window is not barred—if this is not a veritable prison——”

He felt for the bars, and found none. The window was shakey, and he did
not have much trouble in opening it.

Looking out, he found a wall before him and within reach of his arm.
Looking downward, he saw that he was at least four stories from the
ground.

“Can’t jump down there,” he immediately decided.

What could he do?

The air which came up from below told of garbage and foul things, but it
was not close and stuffy out there, and he seemed to gain fresh
strength.

He crept out through the window, and began to feel around with a hand
and a foot, clinging to the sill.

At first he touched nothing, and it was so dark in there that he could
not see very well.

After some moments, his foot found a projecting brick on the opposite
wall. With the aid of this, he balanced himself between the two walls,
continuing his inspection.

Leaning forward, he found he was able to reach another window, which he
believed opened into the room in which he had first found himself on
recovering consciousness.

“If I can get in there, it is possible I may find no locked doors
between myself and liberty,” he thought.

Then he sought to brace himself and obtain a foothold between the two
walls, where he could reach the window.

In the course of a few minutes he succeeded.

He was outside the window, and he tried to open it.

In this he failed, and it became evident that the window was fastened on
the inside.

“Only one thing is left for me to do,” he thought, “and that is to smash
the glass. It will make more or less noise, but it must be done.”

Bracing himself so there was little chance of slipping and falling, he
carefully took off his coat, which he wrapped about his right hand, with
which he intended to break in the window.

He lifted his hand to carry out the project.

Then he paused and listened, hearing the sound of voices and heavy
footsteps.

To his dismay, he heard the footsteps entering the room before him.

“It is my enemies!” he huskily whispered. “They are returning to carry
me out and sink me in the river!”

Now he felt that he was in frightful peril. As soon as they entered that
little closed room they would see that he had escaped by the window.

He had escaped from the room, but he was still within two yards of that
window, and it would be a simple thing to recapture him.

What could he do?

A ray of light shone out through a hole in the curtain.

He found the hole, and peered into the room.

What he saw brought a gasp of astonishment from his lips, and he very
nearly lost his hold and fell.

There were five men in that room. Three of them had glittering revolvers
in their hands, with which they menaced another, whose hands were bound
behind his back.

Another man, standing near and looking on, was a tall, round-shouldered,
shabbily dressed person. His neck was craned forward, his head was round
as a bullet, and small, while his eyes shone with a fierce and murderous
light.

Then Frank saw his hands. They were large and muscular, and unnaturally
white, save where they were soiled by dirt.

The boy knew he was looking at the icy hands which he had twice felt.

Those fingers were working, as if their owner longed to fasten them on
the neck of the bound and helpless captive.

And that captive was ’Arry ’Awkins, the man from Deptford!

“A-r-r-r-r!” snarled Durant, shaking his revolver under ’Arry’s nose.
“We have caught you zis time!”

“I’ll ’ave to hadmit as ’ow you has, gents,” was the cool reply; “but
I’d like to hask why you ’ave caught me?”

“You know very well,” said Linton, also menacing ’Awkins with a
revolver. “There is no reason why you should ask us.”

“Gents, not wishin’ to be himpolite, I will confess as ’ow it’s likely I
hought to know, but I am sorry to hadmit that I do not.”

“Bah!” cried Durant. “Zat ees one lie!”

“I am not hable to prove that you hare mistaken, but if you will untie
my ’ands, I will make a strong hargument,” said ’Arry.

“Cæsar!” thought the boy outside the window, in admiration. “That fellow
has nerve! I wouldn’t have thought it of him.”

“Why are we wasting time?” asked Glanworth, nervously. “I do not relish
this kind of work, and——”

“You will have to take your share in it,” declared Linton; “for you are
as much in danger by this man as any of the rest of us.”

“We all be in ze great dangare,” said Durant. “We be in dangare so long
as zis dev-val live.”

“Hanybody would think as ’ow I were a cannibal, and you were in danger
of being heaten hup,” came from the captive.

“You are worse than a cannibal so far as we are concerned,” said Linton.
“You would not only destroy us, but you would destroy many others who
are working for the good cause.”

“That’s werry strange,” muttered ’Awkins, shaking his head in a puzzled
manner. “I never knew I were so hextremely dangerous.”

“Zat nevare fool us,” declared Durant. “You do ze treek well, but we
know you are Orson Irons, ze great detective of Scotland Yard.”

Frank started so that he came near slipping and falling.

“Is it possible!” he panted. “And I thought him a rascal all along! I
see through it all. He has been watching me. By Jove! he is a consummate
actor, and he has nerve!”

’Awkins laughed.

“Supposing as ’ow I were what you say, gents, what would you do habout
it?” he asked.

“Keel you!” snarled the Frenchman. “Keel you dead!”

“And do you fancy you would be able to escape the officers who know I
came to this quarter to-night?” demanded the captive, now speaking
without the least accent save that which is most natural and perfect in
using the English language.

“They will never know what became of you,” declared Linton. “You will
disappear from the face of the earth, and your fate will remain a
mystery.”

“Ziz ees wasting time!” cried Durant. “Feenish him!”

It seemed that he was on the point of shooting the helpless man through
the head, but Glanworth caught his hand and thrust the muzzle of the
revolver aside.

“No blood!” came hoarsely from the young man’s lips. “Blood leaves
stains, and stains are dangerous.”

“Who ees ’fraid!” snarled the little Frenchman.

“Easy!” came sharply from Linton. “Do not lose your head, Durant. Why
should we do the job when we have one here who will attend to that?
Leave him with Luptus.”

“That’s right,” came quickly from Glanworth. “I do not want to see it.
Leave him with Luptus. His hands will finish the job.”

“Go, get out!” snarled the fiery little anarchist. “Your blood ees made
of water! I want to stay and see ze man die!”

“Well, I do not care about that,” came huskily from Linton, whose face
was pale. “This business is somewhat out of my line, but I believe the
job must be done for the welfare of the cause.”

“You go!” grated Durant. “Both leave me! I will see zat Luptus do ze
job. Go now!”

He almost drove them from the room, closing and fastening the door. Then
he turned and made a signal to the creature with the terrible hands.

With a horrid, inarticulate sound, the creature sprang on the captive
and fastened those deadly fingers on his throat!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER XXXII.

OUT OF PERIL—CONCLUSION.

Crash! jangle! crash!

The window was shattered in a moment, and a boy came leaping through the
opening, and landed in the room amid a shower of falling glass.

Durant had whirled like a cat, his revolver ready for use.

He saw the face of the boy that came through the window, and it filled
him with astonishment and fear.

“Zat dev-val boy!” he gasped. “Hees not dead!”

“Not yet!” returned Frank. “I am rather lively for a dead boy.”

“Zis time you die!”

Durant flung up the hand that held the revolver, a spot of smoke and
fire leaped from the muzzle, and the boy went down.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the little anarchist, in a manner that showed he
was half a madman. “Zat time he be feexed!”

“Not quite!”

Frank had dropped in time to avoid the bullet, and now he came up,
grasping the back of a chair. This weapon he swung about his head and
hurled at Durant.

The Frenchman put up his hand, but he was not in time to ward off the
chair, and it knocked him down.

One glance Frank gave the fellow, and he saw that Durant lay as if
stunned.

Then the boy turned his attention to the trapped detective and the man
with the deadly hands.

The captive’s eyes were starting from their sockets, and his face was
turning purple. Already he was too far gone to make more than a feeble
resistance.

Frank saw that he must do something instantly, or Luptus would finish
the unfortunate wretch in his grasp.

Frank caught the table, tipped it on its side, placed a foot on one leg,
grasped another, and then gave a wrench.

The leg was torn away, and the boy held a terrible weapon in his hand.
With this he whirled toward the two men, lifted it, and brought it down
on Luptus’ head.

That blow was enough.

The mute dropped to the floor, and Frank caught the detective’s swaying
form in his arms, keeping him from falling also.

“Brace up, Irons, if that’s your right name!” panted Frank. “It’s our
only show. We must get out of here before the other two return with more
of their kind.”

The man caught his breath with a fierce gasping sound, rolled his eyes
toward the boy, and then fell over limply.

“It’s no use,” muttered Frank. “He’s done up. I’ll have to get him out.
Can I do it?”

He could try, and this he was ready enough to do.

He dragged the helpless man toward the door. As he was about to turn the
key in the lock, a thought came to him.

What if Linton and Glanworth were waiting outside? What if they were to
see him coming out bearing the limp body of the detective?

“The chances are they would riddle us with bullets,” thought the boy.

Then he went back to where the lamp sat on a bracket against the wall,
and extinguished it.

Once more he found the door, still bearing the detective, turned the
key, carried the man outside, and closed the door behind him.

At the head of a flight of stairs he paused to listen.

Was it possible Linton and Glanworth had been alarmed by the racket of
the struggle and had taken to flight?

The thought gave the lad renewed hope, and he was about to descend the
stairs when he heard a sound in the room behind him.

There was a stir, as if one or both of the men were reviving. He could
hear them moving, and then, of a sudden, there were sounds of a
struggle.

Astounded, Frank listened yet a little longer.

“As I live, I believe they are fighting in there!” he muttered. “Both
have recovered, and they are having it out in the dark. God have mercy
on Emile Durant if those deadly hands find his throat!”

Then he bore the detective down the stairs.

* * * * *

That night a body of officers, headed by Orson Irons and Frank
Merriwell, returned to that place.

They found two dead men in that room.

Durant had finished Luptus with a knife, but the icy hands, now cold and
rigid in death, were fastened on the throat of the little anarchist.

“It is a suitable end for such a wretch as Emile Durant,” said Orson
Irons. “‘The grip of doom’ ended his life, but it will harm no others.”

Several arrests were made that night, Miles Linton being taken.

Kennington Glanworth, however, had disappeared completely, nor did the
London police ever place their hands on him. He had concealed himself,
and he managed to make his escape from the city in some way.

When Professor Scotch heard the story of Frank’s adventures, he was so
furious that he almost tore his hair.

“Went to the East End without my permission, did you?” roared the little
man, prancing up and down before Frank, who was quietly seated in a
chair. “I knew you had gone somewhere you ought not to when you failed
to return at the proper time. Oh, you are a splendid boy to heed the
wishes of your guardian! It’s a wonder you were not brought home in a
coffin!”

“I am here all right,” said the boy, smilingly. “I should advise you to
bind some cracked ice on your head, professor. It may cool you off
somewhat.”

“You are determined to be killed!”

“If I am killed, it will not be any of your funeral, as they say out
West in the United States.”

When the London papers came out and told how the life of Orson Irons,
the Scotland Yard detective, was saved by the bravery of the same
American youth who discovered the infernal machine in the Houses of
Parliament, Professor Scotch read the account with great satisfaction
and pride.

“It’s just like him,” muttered the little man, with no small
satisfaction. “He is a reckless rascal, but he is a representative
American boy, true blue and pure grit all through.”

It was some time before Inza Burrage knew the black truth about
Kennington Glanworth, her cousin. Frank did not tell her, but she found
it all out at last.

Frank and Inza were much together during their stay in London, and the
Yankee boy found no more foes to trouble him.

Orson Irons had warned Frank of his peril at the Derby, and he it was
who had been appointed at headquarters to shadow the boy.

It had been learned at Scotland Yard that Frank had an enemy among the
anarchists, and it was believed that it might be worth while to keep a
strict guard over the lad.

Irons had been instructed to be sure to see every one Frank knew, and
that was the reason why the detective had forced his way into the rooms
occupied by Mr. Burrage and Inza.

The detective was proud to acknowledge that Frank had saved his life,
and before the boy left London, Irons gave him a handsome scarfpin as a
remembrance token.

“You know I picked one from your scarf at the Derby,” laughed the man
from Scotland Yard. “I was bound to have some excuse for calling on you
again, and the pin came handy. This is to show that my intentions were
‘strictly honorable.’”

“You’re all right,” said Frank. “But the next time we meet, you had
better trust me.”

“I will—and I’ll tell you what I am after,” said the detective, with a
laugh.

“I trust you have no more such frightful adventures,” said Inza, when
she and Frank talked the affair over.

“It’s not likely,” said Frank. “I’ve changed my mind about traveling any
more for the present.”

“And what will you do next?”

“I am going to try for Yale, Inza.”

“College?”

“Yes.”

“Good for you. I know you will cut as much of a dash there as you did at
Fardale.”

Frank’s determination pleased Professor Scotch very much.

“That’s right,” he said. “Let us leave Europe before I have to carry you
away in a coffin.”

A week later the pair left, and what Frank’s future adventures were will
be related in another story of this series, entitled “Frank Merriwell at
Yale.”

Frank’s parting with Inza was very friendly. They promised to write to
each other constantly.

And here we will leave our hero, saying, as the professor says:

“A wonderful boy—truly a wonderful boy! An up-and-down, manly American
boy!”

THE END.

No. 9 of the BURT L. STANDISH LIBRARY, entitled “Frank Merriwell at
Yale,” is a rattling good college story that will delight every boy who
reads it, for it is full of punch and jollity from the first page to the
last.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

NICK CARTER STORIES

New Magnet Library

_Not a Dull Book in This List_

ALL BY NICHOLAS CARTER

Nick Carter stands for an interesting detective story. The fact that the
books in this line are so uniformly good is entirely due to the work of
a specialist. The man who wrote these stories produced no other type of
fiction. His mind was concentrated upon the creation of new plots and
situations in which his hero emerged triumphantly from all sorts of
troubles and landed the criminal just where he should be—behind the
bars.

The author of these stories knew more about writing detective stories
than any other single person.

Following is a list of the best Nick Carter stories. They have been
selected with extreme care, and we unhesitatingly recommend each of them
as being fully as interesting as any detective story between cloth
covers which sells at ten times the price.

If you do not know Nick Carter, buy a copy of any of the New Magnet
Library books, and get acquainted. He will surprise and delight you.

_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

901—A Weird Treasure
902—The Middle Link
903—To the Ends of the Earth
904—When Honors Pall
905—The Yellow Brand
906—A New Serpent in Eden
907—When Brave Men Tremble
908—A Test of Courage
909—Where Peril Beckons
910—The Gargoni Girdle
911—Rascals & Co.
912—Too Late to Talk
913—Satan’s Apt Pupil
914—The Girl Prisoner
915—The Danger of Folly
916—One Shipwreck Too Many
917—Scourged by Fear
918—The Red Plague
919—Scoundrels Rampant
920—From Clew to Clew
921—When Rogues Conspire
922—Twelve in a Grave
923—The Great Opium Case
924—A Conspiracy of Rumors
925—A Klondike Claim
926—The Evil Formula
927—The Man of Many Faces
928—The Great Enigma
929—The Burden of Proof
930—The Stolen Brain
932—The Magic Necklace
933—’Round the World for a Quarter
934—Over the Edge of the World
935—In the Grip of Fate
936—The Case of Many Clews
937—The Sealed Door
939—The Man Without a Will
941—A Clew from the Unknown
943—A Mixed-up Mess
945—The Adder’s Brood
947—For a Pawned Crown
949—The Hate that Kills
951—The Needy Nine
953—Outlaws of the Blue
955—Found in the Jungle
957—Broken Bars
958—A Fair Criminal
959—Won by Magic
960—The Piano Box Mystery
961—The Man They Held Back
962—A Millionaire Partner
963—A Pressing Peril
964—An Australian Klondike
965—The Sultan’s Pearls
966—The Double Shuffle Club
967—Paying the Price
968—A Woman’s Hand
969—A Network of Crime
970—At Thompson’s Ranch
971—The Crossed Needles
972—The Diamond Mine Case
973—Blood Will Tell
974—An Accidental Password
975—The Crook’s Double
976—Two Plus Two
977—The Yellow Label
978—The Clever Celestial
979—The Amphitheater Plot
981—Death in Life
982—A Stolen Identity
983—Evidence by Telephone
984—The Twelve Tin Boxes
985—Clew Against Clew
987—Playing a Bold Game
988—A Dead Man’s Grip
989—Snarled Identities
990—A Deposit Vault Puzzle
991—The Crescent Brotherhood
992—The Stolen Pay Train
993—The Sea Fox
994—Wanted by Two Clients
995—The Van Alstine Case
996—Check No. 777
997—Partners in Peril
998—Nick Carter’s Clever Protégé
999—The Sign of the Crossed Knives
1000—The Man Who Vanished
1001—A Battle for the Right
1002—A Game of Craft
1003—Nick Carter’s Retainer
1004—Caught in the Toils
1005—A Broken Bond
1006—The Crime of the French Café
1007—The Man Who Stole Millions
1008—The Twelve Wise Men
1009—Hidden Foes
1010—A Gamblers’ Syndicate
1011—A Chance Discovery
1013—A Threefold Disappearance
1014—At Odds with Scotland Yard
1015—A Princess of Crime
1016—Found on the Beach
1017—A Spinner of Death
1018—The Detective’s Pretty Neighbor
1019—A Bogus Clew
1020—The Puzzle of Five Pistols
1021—The Secret of the Marble Mantel
1022—A Bite of an Apple
1023—A Triple Crime
1024—The Stolen Race Horse
1025—Wildfire
1026—A _Herald_ Personal
1027—The Finger of Suspicion
1028—The Crimson Clew
1029—Nick Carter Down East
1030—The Chain of Clews
1031—A Victim of Circumstances
1032—Brought to Bay
1033—The Dynamite Trap
1034—A Scrap of Black Lace
1035—The Woman of Evil
1036—A Legacy of Hate
1037—A Trusted Rogue
1038—Man Against Man
1039—The Demons of the Night
1040—The Brotherhood of Death
1041—At the Knife’s Point
1042—A Cry for Help
1043—A Stroke of Policy
1044—Hounded to Death
1045—A Bargain in Crime
1046—The Fatal Prescription
1047—The Man of Iron
1048—An Amazing Scoundrel
1049—The Chain of Evidence
1050—Paid with Death
1051—A Fight for a Throne
1052—The Woman of Steel
1053—The Seal of Death
1054—The Human Fiend
1055—A Desperate Chance
1056—A Chase in the Dark
1057—The Snare and the Game
1059—Nick Carter’s Close Call
1060—The Missing Cotton King
1061—A Game of Plots
1062—The Prince of Liars
1063—The Man at the Window
1064—The Red League
1066—The Worst Case on Record
1067—From Peril to Peril
1068—The Seal of Silence
1069—Nick Carter’s Chinese Puzzle
1070—A Blackmailer’s Bluff
1071—Heard in the Dark
1072—A Checkmated Scoundrel
1073—The Cashier’s Secret
1074—Behind a Mask
1075—The Cloak of Guilt
1076—Two Villains in One
1077—The Hot Air Clew
1078—Run to Earth
1079—The Certified Check
1080—Weaving the Web
1081—Beyond Pursuit
1082—The Claws of the Tiger
1083—Driven from Cover
1084—A Deal in Diamonds
1085—The Wizard of the Cue
1086—A Race for Ten Thousand
1087—The Criminal Link
1088—The Red Signal
1089—The Secret Panel
1090—A Bonded Villain
1091—A Move in the Dark
1092—Against Desperate Odds
1093—The Telltale Photographs
1094—The Ruby Pin
1095—The Queen of Diamonds
1096—A Broken Trail
1097—An Ingenious Stratagem
1098—A Sharper’s Downfall
1099—A Race Track Gamble
1100—Without a Clew
1101—The Council of Death
1102—The Hole in the Vault
1103—In Death’s Grip
1104—A Great Conspiracy
1105—The Guilty Governor
1106—A Ring of Rascals
1107—A Masterpiece of Crime
1108—A Blow for Vengeance
1109—Tangled Threads
1110—The Crime of the Camera
1111—The Sign of the Dagger
1112—Nick Carter’s Promise
1113—Marked for Death
1114—The Limited Holdup
1115—When the Trap Was Sprung
1116—Through the Cellar Wall
1117—Under the Tiger’s Claws
1118—The Girl in the Case
1119—Behind a Throne
1120—The Lure of Gold
1121—Hand to Hand
1122—From a Prison Cell
1123—Dr. Quartz, Magician
1124—Into Nick Carter’s Web
1125—The Mystic Diagram
1126—The Hand that Won
1127—Playing a Lone Hand
1128—The Master Villain
1129—The False Claimant
1130—The Living Mask
1131—The Crime and the Motive
1132—A Mysterious Foe
1133—A Missing Man
1134—A Game Well Played
1135—A Cigarette Clew
1136—The Diamond Trail
1137—The Silent Guardian
1138—The Dead Stranger
1140—The Doctor’s Stratagem
1141—Following a Chance Clew
1142—The Bank Draft Puzzle
1143—The Price of Treachery
1144—The Silent Partner
1145—Ahead of the Game
1146—A Trap of Tangled Wire
1147—In the Gloom of Night
1148—The Unaccountable Crook
1149—A Bundle of Clews
1150—The Great Diamond Syndicate
1151—The Death Circle
1152—The Toss of a Penny
1153—One Step Too Far
1154—The Terrible Thirteen
1155—A Detective’s Theory
1156—Nick Carter’s Auto Trail
1157—A Triple Identity
1158—A Mysterious Graft
1159—A Carnival of Crime
1160—The Bloodstone Terror
1161—Trapped in His Own Net
1162—The Last Move in the Game
1163—A Victim of Deceit
1164—With Links of Steel
1165—A Plaything of Fate
1166—The Key Ring Clew
1167—Playing for a Fortune
1168—At Mystery’s Threshold
1169—Trapped by a Woman
1170—The Four Fingered Glove
1171—Nabob and Knave
1172—The Broadway Cross
1173—The Man Without a Conscience
1174—A Master of Deviltry
1175—Nick Carter’s Double Catch
1176—Doctor Quartz’s Quick Move
1177—The Vial of Death
1178—Nick Carter’s Star Pupils
1179—Nick Carter’s Girl Detective
1180—A Baffled Oath
1181—A Royal Thief
1182—Down and Out
1183—A Syndicate of Rascals
1184—Played to a Finish
1185—A Tangled Case
1186—In Letters of Fire
1187—Crossed Wires
1188—A Plot Uncovered
1189—The Cab Driver’s Secret
1190—Nick Carter’s Death Warrant
1191—The Plot that Failed
1192—Nick Carter’s Masterpiece
1193—A Prince of Rogues
1194—In the Lap of Danger
1195—The Man from London
1196—Circumstantial Evidence
1197—The Pretty Stenographer Mystery
1198—A Villainous Scheme
1199—A Plot Within a Plot
1200—The Elevated Railroad Mystery
1201—The Blow of a Hammer
1202—The Twin Mystery
1203—The Bottle with the Black Label
1204—Under False Colors
1205—A Ring of Dust
1206—The Crown Diamond
1207—The Blood-red Badge
1208—The Barrel Mystery
1209—The Photographer’s Evidence
1210—Millions at Stake
1211—The Man and His Price
1212—A Double Handed Game
1213—A Strike for Freedom
1214—A Disciple of Satan
1215—The Marked Hand
1216—A Fight with a Fiend
1217—When the Wicked Prosper
1218—A Plunge into Crime
1219—An Artful Schemer
1220—Reaping the Whirlwind
1221—Out of Crime’s Depths
1222—A Woman at Bay
1223—The Temple of Vice
1224—Death at the Feast
1225—A Double Plot
1226—In Search of Himself
1227—A Hunter of Men
1228—The Boulevard Mutes
1229—Captain Sparkle, Pirate
1230—Nick Carter’s Fall
1231—Out of Death’s Shadow
1232—A Voice from the Past
1233—Accident or Murder?
1234—The Man Who Was Cursed
1235—Baffled, But Not Beaten
1236—A Case Without a Clew
1237—The Demon’s Eye
1238—A Blindfold Mystery
1239—Nick Carter’s Swim to Victory
1240—A Man to Be Feared
1241—Saved by a Ruse
1242—Nick Carter’s Wildest Chase
1243—A Nation’s Peril
1244—The Rajah’s Ruby
1245—The Trail of a Human Tiger
1246—The Disappearing Princess
1247—The Lost Chittendens
1248—The Crystal Mystery
1249—The King’s Prisoner
1250—Talika, the Geisha Girl
1251—The Doom of the Reds
1252—The Lady of Shadows
1253—The Mysterious Castle
1254—The Senator’s Plot
1255—A Submarine Trail
1256—A War of Brains
1257—Pauline—A Mystery
1258—The Confidence King
1259—A Chase for Millions
1260—Shown on the Screen
1261—The Streaked Peril
1262—The Room of Mirrors
1263—A Plot for an Empire
1264—A Call on the Phone
1265—Nick Carter’s Convict Client
1266—The House of the Yellow Door
1267—Nick Carter’s Round-up
1268—A Masterly Trick
1269—For a Madman’s Millions
1270—The Four Hoodoo Charms
1271—The Man in the Auto
1272—The Jeweled Mummy
1273—The Vanishing Emerald
1274—A Live Wire Clue
1275—The Vampire’s Trail
1276—The Crimson Flash
1277—The Vanishing Heiress
1278—The Red Triangle
1279—Nick Carter’s Subtle Foe
1280—Nick Carter’s Chance Clue
1281—A Master Criminal
1282—The Silver Hair Clue
1283—Written in Blood
1284—Bandits of the Air
1285—Nick Carter’s Last Card
1286—The Taxicab Riddle
1287—A Stolen Name
1288—A Play for Millions
1289—The House of Whispers
1290—The Woman in Black

To be published in July, 1930.

1291—Nick Carter’s Egyptian Clue
1292—The Connecting Link
1293—A Woman of Mystery

To be published in August, 1930.

1294—The Dead Accomplice
1295—Nick Carter’s Counterplot

To be published in September, 1930.

1296—The Seven Schemers
1297—The Mysterious Cavern

To be published in October, 1930.

1298—The Crime of a Century
1299—The Man with a Crutch

To be published in November, 1930.

1300—Out for Vengeance
1301—The Poisons of Exili

To be published in December, 1930.

1302—A Double Identity
1303—The Babbington Case
1304—The Midnight Message

* * * * *

If your dealer cannot supply you with the S. & S. novels, write to the
publishers.

=Street & Smith Corporation=
=79 Seventh Avenue New York City=

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everybody Reads

The Street & Smith Novel

High-brow public opinion has changed radically during the past few
years, so far as placing a proper valuation on paper-covered reading
matter is concerned.

In the old days, anything between paper covers was a dime novel and,
therefore, to be avoided as cheap and contaminating.

Since men like Frank O’Brien have pointed out to the world the fact that
some of the best literature in the English language first appeared
between paper covers, such books are welcomed in the best of families.

The STREET & SMITH NOVELS are clean, interesting, and up-to-date. There
are hundreds of different titles, and we invite your careful
consideration of them from a standpoint of value and of literary
excellence.

-------------------------------------------

=Street & Smith Corporation=
=79 Seventh Avenue New York City=

Printed in the U. S. A.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that:
was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Frank Merriwell in Europe: or Working His Way Upward" ***

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