out before I can duck, I'll bean him! I want to know what he’s up to!"
Stealthily, he approached the steps. All that he could see was a murky hole, into which the cement stairs disappeared. A step at a time he made his way down—
And then he paused, holding himself bent forward, rigid as a man of stone. From beyond the door which opened out of this pit came a strange sound, the like of which he had never before heard. It was like a jet of steam, or like sand sifting into a tin pail from a considerable height.
Then came another sound—the sing-song voice of the Chinaman, crooning something in a rhythmic chant: Louie could not understand the words, but there was a swing and lilt to the thing that had a curious effect on him: he felt as if he were being rocked to sleep.
He threw off this mood with a start. There had come another sound—the squealing of many rats. And there was a grating noise, as if a heavy body were dragging itself about the floor. The rat chorus swelled. The creatures evidently had been turned loose, and were racing about the floor in an agony of terror.
The chorus thinned. Something was happening to them. Presently the last of the rats emitted one long, agonized squeal, and was still.
Louie Martin made his way out of the cellarway and hurried dizzily back to the shelter of the bushes. He didn't know what had been happening behind that horrible door, but he knew that it was something which turned his flesh to ice. A strange smell had come to him from under the door—
Louie noted with relief that the lights in Colonel Knight's rooms had been snapped off. That meant that the Colonel had gone to bed. Soon. he would be sleeping, and then Louie could put his plan into execution—that would enable him to forget this baffling but vaguely horrible experience.
Somehow, he felt as if great unseen creatures were flying about him, striking at him with black, featherless wings. The air seemed to be in motion.
He caught himself firmly.
"Got to cut it out!" he mumbled under his breath. "Getting dippy! Likely to bite somebody! Got to think about something else!"
He began to think about the jewels; and then his mind shifted, and he was thinking of the woman from whom he and his companions had stolen the pendant. She had been called: "Mother of the Friendless." The jewels had been given to her by a rich patron, to assist in the work of providing for the many who were dependent on her for charity.
The wolves had done a clever bit of work that time. They had caught the jewels while they were in process of transfer from the original owner to the old woman—
Another tangent. Louie was thinking with cold amusement of the fate of Madam Celia, the "Mother of the Friendless." Luck had turned against her, with the loss of the jewels. Others who had helped her in her earlier years had turned away after that—as if the old woman had suffered contamination by accepting this gift, bequeathed by a certain rather notorious beauty whose affairs had upset thrones and dynasties.
Yes, a very good joke on the old woman. And she had died in abject poverty. That was the way that sort of thing went, Louie realized. One was really a fool to do anything for anyone but one's self.
A sound came through the half-open window of Colonel Knight's suite—and again Louie Martin grinned. The master crook, who had stolen the jewels from the "Mother of the Friendless," was now about to pass them on—only he didn't know it!
Louie brought the metal barrel over under the window and set it, bottom up, so as to form a secure means of approach to the room beyond. He had thrown off his depression now. But he must work fast.
Cautiously, he stepped upon the barrel and raised his hands to the bottom bar. Twisting it slowly and at the same time pulling, he drew both bar and bolts from their sockets and tossed them to the ground. He wanted to laugh! So this was the wisdom of a Chinaman? He might have known!
There was a stone coping a couple of feet above the top of the thing on which he stood. Louie rested his foot on this coping and laid his hands on the sill. Lightly he drew himself up against the face of the wall.
He paused to listen. The man within was breathing heavily and regularly.
Louie thrust his head through the opening—nothing in sight to alarm him. Then, with a quick spring, he threw his weight upon the sill and was half-way through the window—
Half-way, but no farther; for as his weight descended fully upon the sill, the upper sash crashed down like the lever of a great engine. The thief cried out once, a hideous, choking cry that echoed through the room and on into the house of Ah Wing.
Then he was silent, drooping there like one who has been broken on the wheel. Blood dripped from his mouth and nostrils, and he had ceased to breathe. He was caught like a huge rat in a trap!
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE DEAD MAN SPEAKS
SOMEWHERE BEYOND the mist-enshrouded marshes the whistle of a grain ship boomed, to be answered a moment later by the metallic scream of a siren. Vague and mysterious filaments of sound drifted in with the eddying night wind.
"Damn such a country!" the "Kid" snarled, as he turned from the door and tramped back into the house. "How long you going to keep us rusticating out here, Chief? I'm fed up on nature!"
Monte Jerome scowled at his assistant.
"We're going to stay here till we get what we came for!" he replied. "If Martin doesn't show up by morning, we got to decide what he's up to!"
An uncanny silence gripped the four Wolves. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Louie Martin went on duty, and nothing had been heard from him. An uncomfortable idea was developing in the minds of the various members of the "mob."
Suddenly the "Kid" voiced this general suspicion. With a snarl, he pointed accusingly at Monte.
"Fact is, Louie ain't coming back, Chief, and you know it! He's grabbed something—maybe the sparklers—and he's beat it. Don't blame him a damn bit, neither. We're going to set around here with our mouths open till the dicks get after us. But Louie ain't coming back, and you just put that down in your note-book!"
Monte turned toward the speaker.
"Is that your opinion, you lump-head? Well, keep it till I ask you for it. The trouble with you is you've been thinking of cutting loose, yourself. Louie will show up all right. Don't you worry about him."
"Hell of a lot you know about it!" mumbled the "Kid" angrily.
Monte walked slowly toward him, his eyes blazing.
"Trying to start something?" he demanded. "If you are—"
The Strangler intervened at this critical moment. He and the "Kid" had had a disagreement earlier in the evening when the latter moved into the room left vacant by Louie Martin's unexplained absence. This was a ground-floor room with an abundance of light and sun, and the "Kid," with a loose-lipped grin, announced that his doctor had told him he ought to have it. The Strangler had protested; but the "Kid"
