Rathborne was a vigorous man, but Agent “X” was stronger. He literally whirled the senator off his feet, drew his body around as a shield.
When the gardener had once more got his gun into position, Agent “X” was behind the senator, holding the senator’s arms pinioned at his sides. If the gardener fired again, he would kill his employer.
The gardener’s face turned a sickly white. The gun in his hands wavered. Rathborne struggled fiercely and tried to kick back with his heels. The gardener shouted hoarsely.
“I can’t shoot — go and knock him out, Jake.”
The chauffeur sprang across the floor; but “X” pulled Rathborne back toward the window, dragging the senator’s heels over the floor as if he were a dummy. For a moment he held Rathborne with one arm only, reached behind with the other and raised the half-open window.
He suddenly released his clutch on Rathborne, shoved him straight forward toward the gardener with the gun, and stepped backwards out of the window.
He dropped on his hands and knees, moved close to the house, and darted along its sides. The head of the gardener appeared in the window just as “X” made the corner of the house. The shotgun roared again, but the bullets whistled harmlessly by “X’s” head. He was already around the building.
He had the whole night to hide in now. He sprinted for the dark woods that composed half of Rathborne’s estate. In an instant he was in their protective cover.
Stopping and looking back, he saw the gardener and the chauffeur come out with lanterns in their hands. They ran confusedly around the house, flashed their lights into the woods. They seemed to realize the hopelessness of trying to find the man who had escaped.
Tense and silent “X” waited. He had the idea of going back into the house and searching Rathborne’s safe after the police had come and gone.
A speeding automobile came up the long drive. Its headlights goggled weirdly through the wet shrubbery. It came to a stop before the front of Rathborne’s house. Four men leaped out. There was a hurried conversation on the front steps that “X” couldn’t hear. He could see the angry form of Rathborne still in his dressing gown and slippers.
THE police began scouting around the house. When they came dangerously near, Agent “X” stole back into the woods. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. He could see them in the lights from the house. They couldn’t see him.
They went back along the path that led to Peters’ cottage, and “X” followed. He wanted if possible to hear what the police said when they saw the torture victim. But the gardener with his shotgun was still alert. His face was white. He was more to be feared than the police. “X” couldn’t get close enough to hear.
Suddenly he stiffened and listened. Ten minutes had passed. Another car was coming into the drive, a second load of cops apparently.
“X” circled through the woods and peered from between the trees. Then suddenly his lips tightened grimly.
It was another police car, but the police were not alone. Three huge dogs leaped from the car ahead of the men. They had monstrous heads, powerful jaws, flapping ears. Bloodhounds.
This was something he hadn’t anticipated. Evidently Rathborne had put in another telephone call. The hounds were on chains. A beefy-faced man led them forward under the window from which “X” had leaped.
The great dogs sniffed the grass. Suddenly one of them lifted his head and gave tongue. The sound echoed through the still night woods. It was like a devil’s cry. The other two answered, strained at the leashes that held them. The beefy-faced man snapped them loose, and, with a bound of powerful legs, the three monstrous animals leaped forward toward the woods where “X” was watching.
With a sudden hissing intake of breath Agent “X” turned and fled toward the path along which he had come from the spot on the highway where he had left his car. The police and the gardener with his lantern and gun would follow the dogs. “X” was trapped if he didn’t outdistance them. He suspected that he would be shot on sight this time.
The dogs had gone to the spot where he had first crouched in the woods, watching. They bayed excitedly, then struck off, following his footsteps with the grimness of fate itself. He could hear them crashing and leaping in the wet woods behind him, hear the excited shouts of the men urging them on.
“X” flashed his tiny light, found the path. He sped along it, but the dogs, able to see in the dark, were plunging forward at twice his speed. Every second they drew nearer. They were outdistancing the men, leaving them far behind. They were overtaking Agent “X.”
The blood pounded in his veins. The old wound in his side ached. The baying tongues of the great hounds seemed to echo directly in his ears now. Their crashing grew louder and louder. He looked over his shoulder and saw the gleaming phosphorescence of their eyes. They had found the path, too. They were speeding along it, noses to the ground, great jaws slavering. “X” knew he would never make the car before the dogs reached him.
He stopped suddenly in the very center of the path. His lips moved in the darkness. From them issued a strange whistle, a note that was both melodious and eerie, a sound that seemed to fill the whole air at once. It was the whistle of Secret Agent “X”—unique in all the world.
It penetrated the deep woods, reverberated weirdly. It seemed to have a strange effect on the dogs. They stopped baying. They dashed up to Agent “X,” paused in a ring around him, their greenish phosphorescent eyes staring curiously. He spoke softly then.
“Nice fellows,” he said. “Quiet there! It’s all right.”
The leader of the great man-hunting beasts, trained to follow human scent, shuffled forward on padded feet. He thrust a wet muzzle against the Agent’s hand, licked his skin.
A bleak smile touched the Agent’s face. He had demonstrated again the strange power he had of inspiring friendliness in animals.
Another low-spoken word and the Agent turned and continued along the path. The men had found the path, too. They were shouting and running behind. But the dogs remained silent. As though the Agent had been their master they padded quietly at his heels, a strange and awe-inspiring escort.
He reached the highway with the police still three hundred feet behind. Moving swiftly he found his car still parked in the bushes. The hounds seemed loath to leave him. He patted their heads, snapped his fingers, and pointed back into the woods. Then he leaped into the car and backed out.
When the police broke through the highway the red tail-light of his roadster was nearly a half-mile distant.
But, though he had escaped the police, mystery and horror still hung heavy in the night. The sinister man in the green mask had beaten him to the secret that Peters held.
Hours later, that night, “X” went back to Rathborne’s house, entered, and searched the safe. But he found nothing to indicate that the stolen plans were there.
THE next morning newsboys were shouting in the street. The Secret Agent, still in the disguise of Renfew, bought a paper. Then his hands grew tense and his eyes blazed.
The story of Peters’ torture and death was spread across the front page. But that was not all. Senator Rathborne’s house had been robbed during the night. The safe and desk drawers in the senator’s library had been ransacked. A butler who had heard a noise and come in had been stricken with some strange form of paralysis. The paper said it was shock.
Both the murder of Peters and the robbery were attributed to the man who had escaped daringly through Rathborne’s window, using the senator as a shield. They were combing the city for a person referred to as the “Fiend Killer.” No mention was made of a man in a green mask. The police were looking for Secret Agent “X.”