Clyde Burke was satisfied that Harry had followed Rodney Paget completely through the passage. He was angry with himself for having lost the trail. Now the pursuit depended upon Harry alone.
Clyde considered the situation in this light as he walked gloomily back toward Broadway.
Just as Clyde Burke left, the man in the window gave up his vigil. He was satisfied that only one person had followed Rodney Paget into the gloomy passageway. And he knew that by this time that person had been captured and could not possibly escape.
CLYDE BURKE was undecided between two courses. Both Vincent and Paget had disappeared. He must try to locate at least one of them.
Harry, he knew, would return eventually to the Metrolite Hotel, where he resided. It would be a simple matter to go there and wait for him. Rodney Paget, likewise, had a logical destination — his apartment. By watching that building, Clyde could learn when the clubman returned.
The second plan seemed the better. Suppose, reasoned Clyde, that Harry was still following Paget when the man reached his apartment? He would be glad to find Clyde there.
At least, there would be a report to make regarding the hour of Paget’s return. So Clyde proceeded in the direction of Paget’s apartment house.
He chose a spot for observations. It was across the street from the building. There, Clyde lurked in the darkness, occasionally taking a short walk up and down the street.
He had spotted Paget’s windows on his arrival. The windows were dark. It was unlikely that Paget had had time to return.
An hour passed and Clyde continued his vigil. At last he was rewarded. A taxi coasted up to the entrance of the apartment house and Paget stepped out.
Clyde recognized the man instantly by his lounging gait. Paget was not looking in his direction. Clyde sauntered slowly across the street and passed within a few feet of the clubman as he entered the apartment house.
“Fine passenger you had,” Clyde remarked nonchalantly, addressing the taxi driver. “I guess those sporty cane carriers hand out big tips, don’t they?”
“Two bits,” growled the driver.
“My, my,” said Clyde, jokingly, “where did you bring him from? Harlem?”
“Seventy-second and Broadway,” returned the driver, climbing into his cab.
Clyde watched the vehicle drive away. He had, at least, discovered the spot where Paget had entered the cab. He walked across the street and looked up at the apartment house. Lights appeared in the window of Paget’s apartment.
Clyde drew his watch from his pocket.
“Paget in at eleven forty-five,” he remarked, aloud. “Came from Seventy-second and—”
A sound attracted his attention. He turned suddenly to see a man coming from behind him. The fellow had been standing close to a building; Clyde had been too intent to observe him.
The newspaperman warded off a hand that was just about to seize his throat. Dodging, he caught his opponent’s arm and gave it a jujutsu twist. He uttered a shout of elation as the man nearly lost his footing.
Then the situation turned suddenly. The men came closer together, and Clyde caught a glimpse of his foe’s right hand as it swung toward him. He realized — too late — that the man had a blackjack. The brutal weapon struck the back of Clyde’s head. He crumpled to the sidewalk.
A taxicab stopped as the victor called to the driver.
“Help me get my friend in,” said the man on the sidewalk. “He’s been drinking too much bum booze—”
As the driver alighted, the man suddenly turned and ran down the street. The taxi driver stood in astonishment until he noticed a policeman approaching from the opposite direction.
The blue-coat drew a revolver and fired two wild shots as the fleeing man turned the corner.
He pocketed his gun with an angry gesture. Another man came running up and pointed to the form of Burke.
“That’s one of them,” he exclaimed, to the officer. “I saw them across the street. I think the other bird was trying to hold up this guy.”
“Grab ahold,” ordered the policeman.
They loaded Burke into the taxicab and started for the hospital. A doctor examined the victim upon their arrival.
“Hit with a blackjack,” he said. “Possible fracture of the skull. He’ll probably come around all right.”
It was several hours later when Clyde Burke opened his eyes. He clutched the covers of the hospital cot with weak, helpless fingers. He looked about him in a bewildered way. Then he shut his eyes and tried to forget the throbbing in the back of his head.
“He’s doing well,” he heard a voice say. “No fracture, but every evidence of a brain concussion. Keep him quiet.”
The words made very little impression upon Clyde’s mind. He was in a dizzy mental whirl, trying vainly to recall something important that concerned Harry Vincent.
CHAPTER XVI. THE VERDICT
HARRY VINCENT looked about him in amazement. He had just awakened from a deep stupor. He felt very weak when he opened his eyes. He was scarcely able to move his body; but he managed to turn his head as he surveyed his surroundings.
He was propped against the wall of an oddly shaped room. The chamber was scarcely more than a passageway, less than six feet in width. It was twenty feet in length, and at one end Harry saw a tall, upright frame that extended from the ceiling to the floor. The frame was fronted with a grayish, wire-screened glass.
Electric lights glowed dimly through the glass. They furnished the illumination for the room. Harry could not distinguish the individual bulbs that glowed through the glass. They were blurred by the thick, grayish surface.
At the other end of the room, Harry observed a door. It was an unusual door, without hinges. The cracks which formed its outline were barely discernible.
Harry raised himself with his hands and managed to gain his feet. Leaning against the wall, he managed to grope his way to the door. There was no knob or other projection that might serve as a method of opening the door.
Midway between the sides of the door, about six feet from the floor, was a tightly-fitted square of metal.
Harry pressed it with his fingers, but it did not yield.
There was one special peculiarity of this single entrance to the room. The door did not extend to the floor. Its bottom edge was fully a foot above the level on which Harry stood. The top of the door was half way up the wall, which was about fifteen feet in height.
Harry moved back along the wall of the passagelike compartment and discovered several thin slits that ran from floor to ceiling. There were eight of these in all — four on each side of the passage. They were about one inch in width. Harry placed his fingers in one crevice but discovered nothing.
He went to the other end of the room and tapped against the thick glass behind which the lights were located. He sat down on the floor and rubbed his head. He felt a lump and recalled that his last experience had been a forceful blow that had ended consciousness.
He felt in his pockets and found them empty. Even his watch had been taken.
Harry was glad that he had carried no identifying papers. Both he and Clyde Burke had adopted that precaution. It was a good policy to use when one went forth on a venture that might result in capture such as this.
Yet Harry had not anticipated this ending to his following of Rodney Paget. The clubman had never impressed him as being dangerous.
A SOUND attracted Harry’s attention. The noise came from the door. The tiny square in the middle of the door was sliding upward. Harry fancied that he saw the gleam of two eyes peering in.
Then came another sound and the entire door moved up. It revealed a figure clad in a long gown with hooded cowl.