"I begin to understand," she said in a low tone. "The man who
struck you down and tied you in the garage--the man who killed Dick
Fleming and stabbed that poor wretch in the closet--the man who
locked us in downstairs and removed the money from that safe--the
man who started that fire outside--is--"
"Sssh!" warned the Unknown imperatively as a sound from the direction
of the window seemed to reach his ears. He ran quickly back to the
corridor door and locked it.
"Stand back out of that light! The ladder!"
Miss Cornelia and Dale shrank back against the mantel. Bailey took
up a post beside the window, the Unknown flattening himself against
the wall beside him. There was a breathless pause.
The top of the extension ladder began to tremble. A black bulk
stood clearly outlined against the diminishing red glow--the Bat,
masked and sinister, on his last foray!
There was no sound as the killer stepped into the room. He waited
for a second that seemed a year--still no sound. Then he turned
cautiously toward the place where he had left the satchel--the
beam of his flashlight picked it out.
In an instant the Unknown and Bailey were upon him. There was a
short, ferocious struggle in the darkness--a gasp of laboring
lungs--the thud of fighting bodies clenched in a death grapple.
"Get his gun!" muttered the Unknown hoarsely to Bailey as he tore
the Bat's lean hands away from his throat. "Got it?"
"Yes," gasped Bailey. He jabbed the muzzle against a straining back.
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