The body did not return across the floor between the posts. Instead, the foot made the utmost of its momentary hold. It squirmed and worked until the ankle was beyond the post. Then, with the body moving upward, the knee made its grip. The left leg had joined in the work now.
Inch by inch, The Shadow’s lower limbs were climbing to the top of the upright post!
The objective was reached. The Shadow rested. His body, doubled, was beneath the crossbeam. His knees gripping near the joint of the upright post, were taking the strain from those tired wrists and arms.
Now The Shadow writhed in superhuman effort. Difficult though his first action had been, the present task was stupendous.
Twice he failed; but on the third time, with a mighty lunge, he urged his body to the top of the crossbeam. Poised there, balanced on the beam, his body was relieved of all burden. His hands, coming up with him, were pressed against his tired form.
One obstacle yet remained — those tightly knotted ropes, with wire bindings.
How could The Shadow work against them? His hands were helpless. His muscles were tired to the utmost. The straining wrists seemed scarcely capable of further action. Their strength was gone.
With elbows gripping the sides of the upright beam, The Shadow steadied his body. His head bent forward. His lips were against those binding ropes. With his teeth, The Shadow attacked the knots!
HE did not strive to undo the twisted bits of wire. The cord, with its knots, was the real force that held the wrists so tightly clamped together. Each tug that The Shadow made — each grip that his teeth supplied — served to weaken the strong knots.
They loosened gradually. The wires kept them from coming further undone. But now the wrists were aiding. The rest that they had received had afforded them new strength.
They spread and pressed, forcing the wires to the sides of the knots. The knots tightened; but the wrists had gained a slack!
Again, the teeth worked while the wrists rested. Once more the knots were slowly loosened. Then came the sharp tug of the straining wrists. The slack increased; but the binding wires now held with a tighter grip.
The wrists moved backward and forward. The ropes chafed them raw. They twisted and turned until finally they rested side by side, with a hand upon each forearm.
The Shadow’s legs were holding him now. Each time he tugged with his arms, his form nearly toppled from its perch. At last, when strength seemed gone, the amazing man rested for a moment; then gave a final, mighty pull, his bound arms traveling in opposite directions.
The right arm came free! Its wrist was out of the bond!
But the sudden release had thrown The Shadow’s body to one side — toward the front of the torture rack. His knees lost their hold. The right hand clutched for the crossbeam too late. With his left wrist still tangled in the loop, The Shadow plunged toward the floor.
It was the left hand, seizing the crossbeam as it passed, that broke the fall. Momentarily, The Shadow hung poised; then his fingers slipped away.
The cord came taut as the left arm fell; the wrist, now held only by a large, loose loop, wrenched free. The Shadow caught himself as he landed on his right side.
He lay there, a strange figure in the guise of Foy. His face was streaked with blood. His wrists were raw. His lips were bleeding from contact with the binding wires. His strength seemed gone, as he breathed heavily and did not seek to move.
The Shadow had accomplished the seemingly impossible! He had escaped from the Chinese torture rack! He had duplicated the feat of the great Houdini, under the most difficult of all conditions!
But what was the result?
His form was motionless. Was he lapsing back into unconsciousness? Had all his strength been spent?
Time was short. The Shadow was in the hold of a strange ship, manned by a hostile crew! What hope could the future hold for him if he did not act now?
Minutes ticked by. Long, silent minutes, as hopeless as those that The Shadow had spent on the torture rack. For then, The Shadow had been active. Now, he was motionless.
The limit of his time had come. Footsteps sounded without the closed door. Hands rattled at the barrier.
The Shadow stirred.
CHAPTER XXI
THE BATTLE ON THE JUNK
LING SOO paced the broad deck of the Pung-Shoon. He looked upward at the towering turrets of the old-fashioned Chinese ship. There, in the gloom, he could distinguish the forms of sailors. They were waiting for Ling Soo’s signal.
The insidious Chinaman was gloating. He and four members of the Wu-Fan were aboard the junk. It had been Ling Soo’s plan to go below and slay the false Foy himself. Then he had realized that a better scheme of death would do.
He had dispatched two of his men to do the work. Both were ones whom he knew that he could trust. One traitor — like Foy — did not mean a flock. For the secret methods of the Wu-Fan were too insidious to permit of plotting.
Other traitors had been discovered before — traitors like Stephen Laird — when they had begun to suggest their schemes to men whom they thought would work with them.
Ling Soo was near the door to the oddly furnished cabin. His keen ears were set to hear a dull shot from below. That shot would mean the death of the traitor, Foy. Then Ling Soo would give the signal. No time would be lost while the two men were coming from the hold.
It had been difficult for Ling Soo to waddle up those stairs from the hold. That reason, as much as any, was why the leader of the Wu-Fan had delegated his appointed work to his trusted subordinates.
By the high-railed side of the ship, Ling Soo could see the forms of the other two Wu-Fan men. They were ready at the ladder.
As soon as the signal was given, pandemonium would break loose. Then Ling Soo would join his companions, and they would escape, by the little boat, accompanied by the men who came from the hold.
All the crew of this ship were Chinamen — members of a chapter of the Wu-Fan, which existed in China itself. They were sworn to secrecy. They had done good work before; they would do good work tonight!
Ling Soo grinned as he bethought himself of what would be happening elsewhere, when others of the Wu-Fan took advantage of the furor on the junk to do a work that would mean great profit for Ling Soo. Profit for Ling Soo — and for Green Eyes! Millions of dollars in good American money!
The muffled report of a gun shot came to Ling Soo’s ears. Then came a second. Good!
The smile spread over Ling Soo’s face, and he cackled softly. Both men had done their work. Each had sent a bullet through the black heart of Foy, the traitor!
That made death sure; now there would be no more trouble.
Ling Soo stared about him in the dark; toward the high decks; toward the tall, square-rigged masts. The time had come, yet he was careful and deliberate.
From beneath his robe, Ling Soo produced a gleaming revolver. He pointed it off toward the bay. He pressed the trigger. The gun barked.
It was the signal for action!
Shots cracked from spots about the ship. Loud cries sounded. Ling Soo stood waiting, watching the stairs at the other side of the cabin. His two men would be here in a moment.
A head and shoulders appeared from the stairs; then the body of a man — a crouching, sinister form.
Ling Soo stood petrified.
Foy!
THE SLAYER had come to life! Somehow, he had escaped the terrible torture rack!
Had the others aided him? No — there would have been but one shot, if they had been traitors also. They would be coming, now, with Foy.
Ling Soo knew the truth in an instant. Those two muffled pistol shots had been from the hand of Foy. The traitor had killed the trusted henchmen!