Before Don could frame a question, the little French-woman caught his arm.

“Écoutez!” she cried in a husky undertone. “Do you know a man about twenty-six year old, with big, thick chest and red hair dyed black?”

“Yes, yes!” Don whipped back. “Go on! Tell me what you mean! They haven’t caught him?”

“But they have, Monsieur!” replied Suzette. “Ah, I had the fear it might be one of your men! They have just brought him in, unconscious, and Cho-San is very much excited. I hear him say, 'Now I shall grind the truth out of that clown who calls himself Count Borg. But first, I’ll burn this dog with dyed hair until he howls all he knows!’”

“It’s Red!” Don groaned, his fists knotting at his sides. “You mean, Suzette, that they’ve got him in the torture room? Merciful heavens! I’d rather be there in his place—but, quick! Tell me what we can do to get him away?”

“There is nothing, Don!” wailed Lotus, wringing her hands in distress. “Once they have gotten your friend in the Lantern Room, there’s no way of rescuing him except by a trick. The place is too well-guarded....”

“A trick!” exclaimed Suzette excitedly. “Let me think jus’ a moment I believe there is a way....”

“There’s got to be!” grated Don. “Even if we lose a chance of trapping the Scorpion’s whole bunch, we’ve got to get Red out of this. He’s my shipmate, and....”

“Mais, oui!” cried the little maid. “We will do it with the help of le bon Dieu! Only first, you and Mademoiselle must be in the Lantern Room. You must pretend not to care how much they torture your poor friend. You must not let Cho-San see that you know him at all. Then, when the chance have arrive, the lights will go out. Your friend must be quickly freed, and then Ps-st!”

At Suzette’s hissed warning, Lotus broke into rapid speech.

“I understand, my little maid!” she said loudly, with a wink at the Frenchwoman. “You think you must play the chaperon whenever I am with Count Borg. That is why you are always sneaking into the room! Now, let me tell you this....”

“Stop your chatter, girl!” rasped the voice of Cho-San behind them. “I have something of importance to tell your André; so be silent or leave the room! Count Borg, it appears that our task of laying hands on Don Winslow may be unexpectedly simplified!”

“Really, Cho-San!” shrugged Don indifferently. “Did you think it was going to be difficult? I imagine if you used a large enough mob to seize him....”

“Will you never be serious?” spat the Chinese. “To put it bluntly, in elegant words such as you can understand, we have nabbed a guy who looks like one of Winslow’s pals. Now do you understand?”

“Oh, I say! That’s luck, you know! Really!” exclaimed Don, acting his part in spite of inward anxiety. “You mean we can use this man as bait to trap Winslow? Have the fellow write a note to his Commander, or something?”

“Or something!” the Oriental mimicked him grimly. “I can think of something even simpler than a written note, my dear Count. With the information I can get from this Navy spy, by the use of a little pain.... But come with me to the Lantern Room and see for yourself! You, too, Lotus, dismiss your maid and come with us. It is time you should see what a little persuasion—Oriental style—can accomplish. I have machines, copied from the torture rooms of Ancient China, which can extract any secret!”

Chuckling evilly, the huge Scorpion leader motioned the two young people out of the room ahead of him.

As he turned away, Don fought an overpowering desire to smash his fist into Cho-San’s grinning yellow face. Only by ramming his hands deep in his pockets did he succeed in controlling them. Although on fire with anxiety for Red, he must pretend a careless, somewhat bored good humor.

“And I feared we were going to have a tiresome evening, Cho-San,” he murmured. “Chinese torture machines sound awfully entertaining, I must say! Er—by the way, I don’t recall how we get to the lamp room, as you call it.”

“Lantern Room!” growled the Chinese. “Lotus will lead the way and I will follow. Take the shortest corridor, girl! I am anxious to see your André’s face when he sets eyes on our latest captive.”

The doorway concealed by the carved screen opened into another dimly lighted vestibule. Don guessed that a number of its darkly shining panels were really hidden doors, communicating with as many passageways.

The girl, however, showed no hesitation in locating the one she wanted. Her small fingers played briefly with one of the carved dragons of the molding. There was the usual muffled click. Two seconds later a black opening gaped in the solid wall.

This time the narrow corridor ran almost straight, with a sharp downward slope. The distance might have been a hundred feet before another panel slid open at Lotus’ touch, and bright electric light streamed briefly into the dark passageway. Knowing, yet fearing, what he was going to see, Don Winslow stepped into the Room of a Thousand Torments.

The place was really a stone vault of immense proportions, fifty feet wide and perhaps a hundred long. Its groined ceiling was supported by thick stone pillars to which were affixed chains and ring bolts of iron.

Along the walls stood a weird array of mechanical monsters, some of them so crudely made that they might have been centuries old. Don glimpsed a medieval “rack” for pulling living human bodies apart, a rude “wheel” between whose heavy spokes human legs and arms could be broken like matchsticks, an “iron maiden” whose hinged and hollow halves were spiked with deadly knife blades.

There were rows of other horrible machines at which he barely glanced. What drew his attention like a terrible magnet was the prone figure of Red Pennington, still in his valet’s garb, lying on a dark stained plank table. Blood trickling from Red’s broken scalp had smeared the chalklike whiteness of his face. So deathly was his appearance that the two Chinese hatchet men standing guard above him looked like murderers gloating over their kill!

Biting hard on his tongue, Don Winslow held back his rage. Still keeping his outward pose of lazy boredom, he turned to the Scorpion leader.

“Oh, come now, Cho-San!” he protested. “What kind of a silly joke is this? The fellow’s dead as dust! No fun in tormenting a corpse, you know.”

With a feline hiss, Cho-San leaped past him, shouldering aside the nearest hatchet man. Placing his ear to Red’s chest, he listened for the heartbeat. The silence in the great, vaulted room was breathless.

Abruptly the big Oriental straightened up, motioning the guards away.

“The man is not quite dead; we can quickly revive him,” he said. “Come nearer, Count Borg! We shall show you some fun at the expense of your own valet!”

“What’s that?” cried Don sharply, striding across to the table. “Why, you’re right, Cho-San! I didn’t recognize him with all that blood on his face. But see here—you can’t put the screws on my valet, you know! He’s just a harmless chap I picked up to do for me....”

“Ummmmm-hmmmmmm! Of course, of course!” rumbled Cho-San. “Just a harmless chap you—or perhaps someone else—told to follow our car this evening! Well, my dear Count Borg, he succeeded, as you observe!”

The guards had returned with two buckets of water and a wide leather strap. At a gesture from Cho-San, they sloshed the water over Red’s body from head to foot. As soon as both buckets were empty one of the hatchet men began slapping their bound and helpless victim’s face with the heavy strap.

Suddenly Red groaned, rolling partly on his side. The man with the strap stepped away. At the same time, Cho-San pushed Don forward.

The trick was cleverly planned. Only luck and Don’s presence of mind prevented a showdown then and there. As it happened, Red in his half-conscious state still thought he was back at the Empire rehearsing the part of “Penny.”

“Yes, sir! I’ll get right up, sir!” he mumbled, opening one eye. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but ... mmmmm—my head!”

At that moment Don flashed him a warning signal often used between them—a sharp lift of the right eyebrow. And, foggy as poor Red’s brain still was, he got it.

Instead of answering, he shut his mouth and groaned.

With a sigh of inward relief, Don Winslow went on with the act. Until the chance should come for a getaway, he must play for time.

“Look here, my man!” he snapped angrily. “What on earth possessed you to follow my friend’s car this evening? Hang it! If this is some stupid police trick....”

“Not at all, my dear Count!” chorded Cho-San, seizing Red by the scalp. “It’s a trick of the famous Navy Intelligence, if anything. Look closely at this stout lieutenant’s hair—dyed black, except at the roots!”

A flat accusation could not have been more menacing than Cho-San’s leer. Yet, somehow Don sensed that the Chinese was still only guessing. With a puzzled frown he returned the man’s snaky gaze.

“A lieutenant?” he drawled. “Oh, of course! You mean Red Pennington. But really, Cho-San, this fellow Penny couldn’t be Don Winslow’s shipmate. I picked him up only today on the sidewalk, mooching for dimes. He told me he’d been a valet and I hired him. Even bought him an outfit of clothes. Come now, Cho-San, admit that your idea’s a bit fantastic! Besides, how could Pennington have got here so soon from Haiti, old dear? Ha-ha! I’ve got you there, haven’t I?”

“Unless,” smiled the Chinese with sinister emphasis, “—unless you, my dear Don Winslow, brought him with you as a passenger in the plane that Michael Splendor allowed you to steal!”