Wentworth's wrists were handcuffed before him and another shackle about his ankles secured him to a steam pipe. His tool kit had been discovered by the Black Death and lay open upon the floor before him. Men had examined it. Tied to the bed lay Virginia Doeg, her red hair tousled, her face swollen, still in a stupor from the effects of drugs.
Wentworth smiled slowly, deepening the taut lines of his face. His eyes seemed to grow more haggard.
“Darling, darling,” he said, “why did you come?”
“Scarcely complimentary to the lady, my dear Mr. Wentworth,” jeered the man behind the mask. “I marvel that she finds you so attractive.”
Nita tugged against his restraining hand. “Oh, please, please,” she said, and, released, ran to Dick and threw her arms about him. For a moment she forgot all the evilness of her surroundings in the joy of being with him again. He buried his face in the softness of her hair, murmuring over and over, “Darling.”
But Nita was not entirely absorbed in the greeting, happy as she was to be with Dick again. Her mind was working swiftly, seeking some way to help him escape. She put little credence in this man's promise to let her ransom Wentworth. But she turned to him with seeming confidence.
“Now turn him loose,” she said, smiling. “You have the money.”
The man regarded her steadily through the slits of his mask and made no answer. Nita walked toward him, her eyes pleading, her hands half outstretched.
“I have fulfilled my part of the bargain,” she said. “It is your turn to do as you promised.”
She was quite close to him now. The beginnings of laughter shook him. He chuckled in amusement, threw back his head, and, like an uncoiling spring, Nita leaped forward, snatched for the gun she had seen him place in his pocket. The man snapped his arms about her. They were like steel bands and she was helpless. He laughed at her struggles, lifted her bodily from the floor and carried her well away from Wentworth.
“Almost caught me napping,” he chuckled. “Ah, but I admire a brave and pretty woman.” He took her hat from her head and ran his hand through her tangled curls, tilted up her face. He laughed again. “Only the necessity for wearing my mask,” he said, “prevents me paying proper tribute to your beauty.”
He turned toward the Spider, straining futilely against his shackles. “Perhaps,” the masked man went on softly, “when we have disposed of your—friend...”
Wentworth forced himself to calmness. Showing agitation would merely be fuel to the flames of this man's love of torture. He laughed shortly.
“A petty criminal to the last,” he jeered, “pulling petty little tricks. The Black Death? You haven't the brain to conceive such a thing.”
Holding Nita helpless, the man turned the blank face of his mask to Wentworth.
“And the Spider gives evidence of human emotion,” he mocked. “Imagine the Spider, the great altruist, being swayed by mere jealousy!”
Wentworth's face was disdainful, and in his eyes Nita caught a gleam that gave her hope. But it was only for a moment. Dick was courageous beyond all men she knew, but bravery could not break those gleaming shackles of steel that held him prisoner.
“Just a muscle-man,” the Spider jeered, “a fool sleeping in the King's bed, pretending to be the Black Death. Why you—”
And the masked man laughed!
“Give up, Spider,” he said. “I'll admit you're clever. But when you try to goad me into talking, you're merely amusing. You've been trying now for two hours, excepting for the twenty minutes it took to collect your girl friend, and you've learned precisely nothing.”
It was the Spider's turn to laugh. The two men glared at each other fiercely.
“You think so?” Wentworth sneered.
Nita remained quiescent in the man's grasp. She could feel his anger mounting in the tightening grip of his fingers on her arms. They bit like the pinchers of the Inquisition, but she made no sound. Dick seemed to be trying to infuriate the man. If he would forget her for an instant, she might strike him from behind! She felt his fingers loosen, and relaxed her muscles for the test. A chuckle trickled from behind the mask. The steel fingers thrust Nita toward the bed, held her while he tied her.
“Yes, you are clever, Spider,” the man said, “but not quite clever enough. It is a pity—”
He crouched and snarled suddenly, whirling toward Wentworth, helpless in his shackles of steel—“a pity you must die.”
Slowly, while Nita watched with horror- widened eyes, he drew from his pocket the automatic she had tried to snatch.
“You were right, Wentworth,” he said. “I only wanted the girl here so I could kill her with you. There was just the slightest chance that you might have struck some trail that pointed to me and confided your suspicions to her.
“But—” the gloating laughter cackled out, “—the Black Death leaves only dead behind. There will be no tales told.”
He raised his gun.
“No, no!” Nita said, “No, not that! I'll do anything, anything, but please!”
The masked man did not even turn his head. The softness was gone from his voice now and it grated harshly like rusty iron.
“You are hardly in a position, my dear, to make promises. It is I who shall dictate, you who shall obey. But first—”
The gun snapped up. Wentworth dropped to the floor as lead whined past. He seized the shackle about his ankle, and it came loose in his hand!
He sprang toward his enemy. But in mid leap he checked and twisted aside. Behind him, he heard the snarl of an animal raging.
The curtains before the window were whipped aside and a tawny shape hurtled across the room straight at the throat of the Black Death!
Wentworth rolled aside, shouting, “Get him, Apollo!” and Nita jerked to her feet, shouting excited encouragement to the great dog. But the masked man whirled like a flash, and the upswung movement of his gun and the crash of its explosion were almost simultaneous.
Apollo's leap sent him crashing against the man's chest, sent the crook reeling backward across the room with arms waving frantically to recover his balance. But Apollo, great Apollo, plunged to the floor and lay quivering, helpless to move a muscle of his powerful body.
The Black Death brought up heavily against the wall, partly dazed. His gun came up slowly.
And now Ram Singh burst into the room, knife gleaming in his right hand, drawn back to throw. For a single instant the masked man wavered, then turned and fled.
Ram Singh's hand flashed forward, the knife glittered in the air. The door clapped shut, and the blade ground its point upon that metal barrier, and crashed futilely to the floor.
“A gun. Ram Singh!” Wentworth cried sharply.
The Hindu caught one from his pocket and tossed it to him. Miraculously Wentworth's hands were free of the shackles, and he caught the weapon, raced across the room and snatched open the door.