When, after seconds of agony, his right hand was free, he loosened the ropes more quickly. Weak and shaking, he lay still a moment on the altar slab. Then he forced himself to his feet. His eyes were burning with a light that was almost feverish. He stumbled toward the curtained door; paused to listen.
There was no sound in the building now. But he could not go to Betty immediately. The poison powder was still on his arms and chest, being absorbed through the tiny cuts. “X” tried to brush it off, then stopped. At the first contact of his hand new stabs of pain thrust into him. But he must get rid of the stuff quickly, or die.
He followed the passage he had first entered, reached the small outside door, and slipped out into the darkness. His eyes would hardly focus. Breathing was getting difficult. Cold fingers seemed to be pressing around his heart
Through the night he staggered, stumbling, falling, getting up. He knew where he was going, but the way seemed endless. His knees were almost giving under him. His body was a quivering mass of pain.
Then he saw the glint of water. With a desperate plunge, he reached it, immersed himself in the river. Its chill was like a merciful poultice. He lay breathing hoarsely, till the poison began to thin as the powder dissolved. He moved his hands across the scratches now, washing the hideous stuff away; washing till each tiny abrasion was clean.
It was minutes before the pain began to abate. It was like the slow withdrawal of burning wires that had been driven into his flesh.
A HALF-HOUR passed. Then again he crept toward the building where he had suffered such torment. The poison of the Kep-shak had left his muscles weak. He didn’t let that stop him. Silent and tense he slipped into the building, crept along the dim corridor to the chamber where Betty was imprisoned. On the threshold he paused, looking in. Fear chilled him for a moment.
Betty’s Dale’s eyes were closed. Her face was pale as death. But she wasn’t dead. Her eyelids lifted at Agent “X’s” cautious hiss. Again he made the mysterious sign—the “X” traced in the air. In spite of this she almost cried out at the sight of his torn clothing and scratched skin.
“X” put his finger to his lips for silence, then drew a knife from his pocket. Quick slashes severed the ropes that bound her, and the Agent motioned Betty to follow him.
But the girl was unable to walk. She took an uncertain step across the floor, then sank down with a little moan.
“In a moment,” she whispered, “I’ll be all right.”
There was no time to wait. One of the Malays might take it into his head to prowl.
Swiftly Agent “X” stooped and gathered Betty in his arms. He was glad she couldn’t see his face, or the sweat that started on his forehead. The effort of picking her up brought gruelling pain back into his muscles. Half of his strength seemed to be gone.
With Betty in his arms, he moved stealthily along the shadowy passage. Once he thought he heard a sound and paused, tensely alert. Then he continued. Outside at last, he stood Betty gently on her feet. He rested a moment, breathing heavily, gathering his spent strength.
“I can walk now,” Betty whispered.
“Wait,” he said. “Later,” and picked her up again.
He moved straight toward the river, planning to skirt its bank. But a whisper of sound came from the building behind them. A human call! One of the Malays was awake!
The sound was repeated, taken up by other voices. The Agent’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. His escape from the idol’s chamber had been discovered.
He turned and cut into the woods. Seconds were precious. He must locate his canoe. He dared not even think of the consequences if they were captured now.
In spite of Betty’s insistence that she could walk, the Agent continued to carry her. The ground was rough, with bushes and vines clogging the path. Everything depended on silence now. His own sure-footed tread, making their progress as quiet as was humanly possible in the underbrush, now and then rustled a leaf, snapped a dry twig.
There came a savage cry from the darkness behind. It was not loud, but held infinite evil. Betty Dale tensed in the Agent’s arms.
HE did not try to reassure her. Every breath, every ounce of strength he possessed must be saved for what he had to do. The canoe lay somewhere ahead where he had left it hidden under the river bank. His sense of direction had never failed him. He knew that even though his brain was still dazed by poison he was heading toward it.
But a tangle of vines impeded his way. They scratched his ankles, clutched at his feet and legs. He had to slow down. Once he tripped and, lacking the freedom of his arms for balance, almost fell.
There were definite sounds of pursuit now. Guttural grunts, low-voiced orders. Bushes rustled perilously close behind. It was like a ghastly nightmare, with the vines clutching at his legs like the fingers of an enemy intent on impeding his progress.
He broke through the mat at last, saw the gleam of water beyond. But the rustlings behind were coming closer. He put Betty down, found that she could walk, and took her hand. Then suddenly he thrust her ahead of him.
“Straight toward the water, Betty.”
He did not tell her why he made her walk ahead. But an instant later he ducked and thrust Betty Dale frantically to one side as something whispered by in the darkness with the thin hum of an insect’s wings. Their brown-skinned pursuers were shooting at them with poisoned darts.
Agent “X” saw the canoe, then, a slim dark shadow among the bushes. He drew Betty down, and they crawled on hands and knees toward the water. “X” shoved the canoe free of the slimy mud edging the shore, then whispered to Betty Dale to get in.
“Lie down,” he said, “flat.”
Betty obeyed. “X” seized a paddle, balanced precariously in the frail craft’s stern, and thrust strongly away from shore. The canoe shot out, sharp prow cutting the water with a knifelike sweep.
But as it did so, winged insects seemed to be following them. Horror crawled along the Agent’s spine as something plucked at his coat sleeve. There was a soft spat as a dart hit one side of the canoe. It quivered there, its sinister green-feathered end showing in the faint starlight.
Agent “X” glanced back toward the island, saw shadows moving along the shore. He dug his paddle into the water, and a powerful back-thrust sent the canoe shooting ahead. Then he, too, bent down, holding himself on braced hands that gripped the canoe’s gunwale.
Two more darts spatted into the canoe’s sides. Others hummed above his head. Then the current caught them, whirled the light craft around. He rose and sent it swiftly downstream.
But a cry rose from the shore. Another low-voiced order. A second later the Agent turned his head and tensed. Something was moving out from the island’s edge—something that lay black on the surface of the river.
Machinery whined. An engine barked into life. The dark shadow turned and glided toward them. The Malays had taken to their motor boat. Death was hurtling out of the darkness behind them.
Chapter XVIII
Red Death
IT seemed that all the hideous forces of the night were conspiring against them. It seemed almost that the idol, Tuan, had the evil power attributed to him by his followers—and was reaching out fingers to snatch them back.
The Agent’s mouth was set. Pallor spread beneath the disguise he wore. His eyes were points of burning light. The motor boat behind them had turned now. It was plunging down the river’s channel in pursuit.
Muscles in the Agent’s back stood out like knots. He leaned forward at each stroke, dug in, sent the canoe shooting ahead under his paddle thrust.
“If there were only another paddle,” Betty whispered. “I could help you, then. You came to the island to save me.”
“I would have come anyway, Betty. It might as well have been tonight as later.”
There was a note of buoyancy in “X’s” voice. He would not let the girl know the fear he felt. She was being brave—as always—putting his safety ahead of her own. Under the faint starlight
he caught the golden glint of her hair, saw her eyes, bright as stars themselves, turned upon him.
“They are coming,” she whispered tensely. “They must know now you are not one of them. They will kill you.”
“The fox knows many tricks,” Agent “X” answered, lapsing once more into the mysterious, indirect form of speech he was fond of. His eyes strained through the darkness. The shore was two hundred feet away. But if he turned, going side-wise to the current, he and Betty would be overtaken before they reached it.
Agent “X” thought quickly. The roar of the motor boat behind was like the pulsebeat of some drum of doom. Caught by the Malays again, he could not hope to escape. Neither could Betty. She would be taken back, and the green-masked criminal would make good his threat. She would be tortured horribly, and left paralyzed for life.
Breath hissed between the Agent’s teeth. He leaned over then, spoke hoarsely.
“There is one way,” he said. “You must slip out and swim to shore, Betty—while I lead them after me.”
He knew that Betty was an expert in the water. The river would hold no terrors for her. She could make the shore easily. But she made a protest that sounded almost like a sob.
“I can’t,” she said. “They will catch you—and kill you. Let me stay with you—and be caught—too.”
For a moment her words betrayed a secret of her heart; the secret that she felt more than friendship for this strange man; the secret that he had become part of her own life. Her eyes were misty. Her voice trembled as she leaned out and touched his arm.
“Let us fight—together,” she said.
The Agent caught the significance behind that word “fight.” Die was the word she should have used, the word she really meant. He kept the tremor from his voice as he answered.
“It is our only chance, Betty. And more than our lives is at stake. There is the work that brought me to Washington.”
“Then you swim!” said Betty eagerly. “Let me lead them off. They won’t hurt me if I am caught. They’ll just hold me prisoner till the police come.”
“X” didn’t frighten her by repeating the green-masked killer’s threat, but his voice was firm.
“No, Betty—we must both escape. And perhaps we can.”
He looked behind him, touched Betty’s arm quickly. “Now! In a moment it will be too late.”
A sound like a sob came from Betty Dale’s lips. She reached forward, drew her high-heeled slippers from her slim feet—the same slippers that had moved so gaily over the dance floor at Senator Foulette’s house a few hours before. She was still clad in evening dress, white arms and shoulders bare.
The Agent’s fingers touched hers for a moment, gripped them reassuringly.
“It will be all right,” he said. “But you must promise, Betty, to leave Washington at once.”
“Then how will I know—if you are all right?” she asked.
“Call the Herald as soon as you can. I’ll do the same. You’ll hear from Raphael Sancho. Now, Betty—good-by.”
The Agent leaned far over, bracing the canoe against his paddle. Betty Dale, slim and lithe as a nymph, slipped overside into the dark water. He saw her dive beneath the surface, saw her blonde head reappear twenty feet distant. For an instant that frightened him. What if the Malays saw her, too?
He swung the nose of the canoe around, paddled back, screening Betty’s movements. Then he swung again in the other direction.
A DARK shadow bulked on the river’s rim behind. He could see the speed-boat now. That meant they could also see him. His heart leaped with relief, for the other craft’s nose was turning. Betty Dale was safe.
He bent over his paddle. With Betty no longer in the canoe it seemed to leap over the water like a skimming bird. He dug the spruce blade in, gripping it in powerful fingers. He thrust savagely, turning toward the opposite shore.
The thunder of the speed boat crept closer. Death rode the wind behind, death in its most hideous form. But Agent “X” was fighting to escape; fighting the battle of his life. Now, with Betty Dale safe, he was free to pursue his strange work in Washington; free to continue his quest for the stolen plans.
But could he make the shore? The motor boat was plainly visible now. He could see the white froth at its prow, froth that was like foam flecking the mouth of a snapping, snarling beast. He was nearer shore than he had realized. The smooth surface of the river was broken by a mat of reeds—a marsh. Last year’s dry growth still raised thick stems. He could plunge among them and be hidden from the poison darts behind. But they were still a hundred feet away.
He swung his paddle to the other side, strained fiercely, cutting across the current. He calculated the best angle to make it, but still the speed boat was gaining on him. A guttural shout rose behind him. A strange chant followed. The Malays in the boat were singing their song of death.
They were sure of victory now; sure they would recapture him. But an instant later their chant turned to shouts of anger. They, too, had seen the dark barrier of reeds. The motor’s roar reached a higher note. It swept down out of the night like a savage demon’s growl.
Something struck the water close to “X’s” canoe. For an instant he saw a tiny feathered stick before it sank out of sight. A dart! The high wind had made the Malay’s aim poor. He must gamble now—on the wind, to send the darts wide of their mark; on the reeds ahead, to shelter him.
His lips were white as he swept forward over the last fifty feet of dark water. The thunder of the speed boat-beat in his ears. A dart sang past his head, buried its deadly point in the canoe’s gunwale. There was a spat against his paddle, and, looking down, he saw another quivering in the soft spruce.
A swish and the canoe’s bow slipped in among the reeds. Thick stems closed in behind it. For a moment he was safe from the flying darts, protected by a mat of vegetation.
But he leaped from the canoe, floundering ahead toward boggy land. And as he moved, the speed-boat lunged in amid the reeds also. Agent “X” lurched sidewise, heard the boat’s sharp prow crunch against the canoe’s frail side.
Swiftly, determinedly, he plunged ahead, deeper and deeper into the reeds. Dry stems cracked and broke. He was making noise, but the speed-boat’s throbbing motor drowned it out. Let them follow if they wanted! He had a start now. His own legs would be as fast as theirs. A great purpose spurred him on.
The speed-boat’s engine slowed. He heard the suck and slap of its propeller as it backed out. Then he stiffened. Raising his head, he sniffed the air, then turned startled eyes behind. In that instant new horror clutched his heart.
Between the thick reed stems he saw a faint glow. It brightened. A slim flame shot skyward. Above the speed boat’s throttled motor rose a vicious crackling sound.
Fire! The Malays had put a light to the dry marsh reeds! And the wind was sweeping off the river toward him!
Like an evil ghost a gray cloud of smoke drifted overhead. It seemed to spread huge arms above him. It was torn, thinned by the wind, but more followed it. Then the first glow became a crimson, blazing light. The speed-boat’s motor ceased. Across the still river, above the crackling hiss of flames, the death chant rose again.
“O Tuan, Great One, the gods of fire have aided thee in thy wrath! He who is guilty shall be punished. He shall be consumed in hot flames.”
As the strange chant rose, the fire seemed to spread its hungry arms. It leaped along the river’s edge and swept forward toward the spot where Agent “X” was floundering. And each instant the threat of its red fangs increased.
Chapter XIX
Flaming Peril
HORROR constricted Agent “X’s” throat. The crackling flames seemed to sound a death knell to the victory that had been so near. This was a peril he had not foreseen. Had the devil god, Tuan, won after all? The deepening smoke clouds seemed to form a curtain lowering upon the defeat of Agent “X.”
He turned fiercely and floundered on through the marsh. But he could not outdistance the wind. It dro
ve the flames coiling through the dry reed stems like red, hungry serpents. The fire gathered fury with every foot it covered.
The Agent came to a hummock of hard ground. On his toes, he stared forward across the marsh. He groaned. As far as he could see, the waving tops of the dry cat-tails continued—an undulating plain, lurid now with the red glow of the fire.
A billowing breath of smoke swirled about him. He choked, stumbled on toward a slight break in the reeds ahead. Here he sank waist deep in the water. A channel cut through the marsh at this point.
He started to climb out, turned back. The roaring of the fire had shut out the Malay’s chanting now. The Agent was alone in a world of smoke and flame. Only a thin barrier of reeds stood between him and a blazing inferno. The flames were fast devouring that. On each side, where the reeds were thinner, arms of the conflagration shot out. He was being encircled in a fiery embrace—an embrace of death.
The water in which he stood was his only hope—and the Agent’s mind flashed back. Years ago, as a boy, he had been caught in a forest fire. He remembered how he and an old woodsman had saved themselves.
With quick tense fingers the Agent drew his knife. He bent forward, slashed at the reed stems, drew one out. With his knife blade he trimmed the ends. The reed was hollow. He put it to his mouth, drew air through. A grim smile made his eyes grow bright. A human life hung upon that slender reed—and a nation’s destiny, perhaps.
The fire was close now—thirty feet. Clouds of hot air swept forward. The Agent wet his reed in the channel’s water, then lay down on his back. Raising himself on one elbow, he kept his face above the surface of the water.
The fire swept onward in a roaring, red glare. Reeds on the channel’s edge began to smoke and curl. The top of one burst into flame, dropped as the stem bent and broke.
Heat quivered above the water. Blazing stems and gray ashes hissed as they fell. Then like a red, destructive wave, the full force of the fire advanced.
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