CHAPTER V.

“LET GO, OR I’LL FIRE!”

The others were without firearms, but caught up chairs and whatever else they could lay hands on.

The opposing forces met about in the center of the space between the operating table and the door, while the nurse, ignored by both sides, shrank back against the wall, beyond the ghastly form on the table.

Nick had fully realized the odds that would be against them in the event of a clash. He had assumed, however, as he was not dealing with ordinary criminals, but with men who would probably be unarmed, and would have much to lose by an ill-advised attempt at resistance, that three well-armed and determined men could bluff nine into submission.

They had failed in that, and the odds were three to one, for Hoff had arrived a little after the others, armed with a big army revolver.

When the attack began, Hoff forged to the front, pushing the young surgeons to left and right. As a result, he, Doctor Grantley, and the latter’s assistant, all armed, were directly opposed to Nick, Patsy, and Doctor Cooke, while the six young surgeons, taking advantage of the situation, wormed their way past, one by one, and got in the rear of the invading trio.

Things began to look far from promising.

Hoff was bigger than any of those on the other side, and he advanced to the fray with a bellow which suggested that he felt himself in his element.

Doctor Grantley was transformed. His face was distorted with murderous hate, and there was a tigerish quickness about his movements which was unexpected in a man of his age and occupation.

Even Doctor Siebold proved to be a surprise. His agility and reckless ferocity made up for any physical deficiencies, and he fought with a whole-hearted devotion that was worthy of a better cause.

Desperation nerved them all, in fact, to a degree which would have been impossible under other circumstances. Their resistance was utterly unreasonable, since they could hope to gain no real or permanent immunity, no matter how completely they might defeat the three who had seen the fruits of their detestable experiment. They could not hope to stop their mouths for good without actually killing them all, and that way led straight to the electric chair.

Nevertheless, their fears urged them on, and it looked as if nothing short of murder would satisfy them.

The fight was hot, bitter, and merciless.

The detectives and Doctor Cooke acted upon the defensive as much as they could at first, and pressed the others back toward the door into the hall. They wished to get out of the room, if it was possible, before showing what they could really do.

Naturally, their three principal adversaries did their best to prevent this, and for two reasons:

One was that Grantley and his lieutenants wished to block the way toward the open air—although they might have known that the detectives had no thought of retreat—and the other was that they were bent upon keeping Nick’s men as close to the operating table as might be, and thus limiting their activities.

Without the opposition of Hoff, there would have been comparatively little difficulty about gaining the hall, but the German’s bulk and weight formed an effectual barrier.

Grantley and Siebold were driven back against him again and again, but they seemed to rebound from his great frame, and to fling themselves upon the detectives once more with renewed fury.

Blows fell thick and fast. Revolver butts met and struck sparks as they ground together in mid-air, and often they fell with dull, bruising thuds on the flesh of one or another of the combatants, or drew blood from glancing blows on scalps or cheeks.

For some time, however, no one was knocked unconscious.

The blows were too well parried on both sides, for the most part, to bring that about; but the conflict could not go on in that way forever.

Doctor Cooke was the first to go under. He was pressing his advantage over Siebold at the time, forgetful of all else, and was just about to deliver a blow which would have ended Grantley’s assistant for some time to come, but just then Hoff, seeing his chance, brought down the butt of his heavy revolver with crushing force on Cooke’s head.

The young surgeon fell like a stricken ox, and howls of delight went up from his enemies.

Nick, who had not yet succeeded in beating down Grantley’s guard, owing to the confusing attacks from the rear, saw red when he saw his professional ally fall.

He ducked suddenly, got under Grantley’s guard, and pushed his opponent violently backward against the German. The impact took Hoff unawares and caused him to stagger back. In a moment Nick was at him. The detective’s clubbed automatic whistled past Grantley’s head and caught Hoff fairly on the center of the forehead.

The weapon was light, but the trained muscles behind it more than made up for that.

The German caved in at the knees and toppled over backward through the doorway. He blindly grasped Doctor Grantley as the blow fell, and so dragged his employer with him.

Quick to see his advantage, Nick sprang after them, determined to put Grantley out of commission as well. Siebold managed to trip him, however, and, at the same time, one of the other doctors brought a chair down on the back of his head.

The blow might easily have been fatal had Nick been standing erect at the time, but he had already started to pitch forward, thanks to Siebold’s trick.

In spite of that, the whirling chair, which was a heavy one, knocked the detective senseless, and he fell, a dead weight, upon Grantley and Hoff.

The latter was unconscious, but Grantley had been frantically trying to wriggle out of Hoff’s arms when Nick landed on him.

Immediately he turned his attention to the detective, and, from underneath, clamped his long, bony fingers about the helpless detective’s neck and began choking the life out of him.

Patsy Garvan was now the only representative of his side who was still on his feet, and no less than seven enemies ringed him around.

His keen eyes detected his chief’s danger, however, and he started to Nick’s aid at once.

He never knew how he escaped the clutches of his opponents, or kept in the game under the rain of their blows. Nevertheless, he did so, and he not only did that, but also succeeded in driving forward until he was crouching over the pile of prostrate forms in the doorway.

“No you don’t!” he ejaculated, bending over and poking the muzzle of his automatic under Nick and into Grantley’s side. “Let go, or I’ll fire!”

CHAPTER VI.

A FLANK MOVEMENT.

He had removed his automatic from Grantley’s ribs while he changed position, but now he thrust it back again.

“Did you hear me down there?” he demanded.

Simultaneously he produced another weapon with his left hand, dug that in turn into Grantley’s side, and, lifting the muzzle of the first automatic, trained it on the foremost of his foes.

He had made a decided change for the better, for he was now in the hall, with his opponents all in front of him, in plain sight, and the length of the three bodies between him and them.

“Keep back there!” he commanded, waving his upraised weapon a little and covering one after another of the crouching surgeons. “I’m just getting warmed up, and I wouldn’t advise you to make any false moves, unless you want to kiss yourselves good-by.”

Grantley had relaxed his throttling hold on Nick’s windpipe at Patsy’s first threat, but had taken a new and more dogged grip, while Nick’s assistant was so unceremoniously making his way over the detective’s unconscious form—and incidentally squeezing the breath out of Grantley himself, who was beneath.

When the muzzle of the automatic prodded him again, however, he let go a second time and lay quite still, contenting himself with cursing Patsy under his breath and calling on his own followers to rescue him.

It looked as if Patsy had turned the tables about as completely as possible.

If the seven, or any of them, tried to rush him, there was little doubt that he would make good his threat and shoot their leader, which he could easily do before any of them could reach him.

And even aside from that, such an attack could hardly be successful, in itself, if the young detective was in earnest about firing into the crowd at the first sign of hostile action.

The nearest of them, Doctor Siebold, was nearly six feet away, beyond the narrow, body-choked doorway. Patsy’s quick-firing automatic could probably speak twice before that space could be covered, especially as the three prostrate forms which occupied most of the distance would make the going very precarious.

Siebold was armed, to be sure, but Patsy’s keen eyes were watching his every movement with lynxlike intentness, and it would have been folly to suppose that Grantley’s assistant could get the drop before such an experienced man hunter.

Still, the situation was trying enough for Patsy, and it demanded so much concentration that it could not be expected to remain unchanged for long.

Nick’s assistant was beginning to wonder when help would come, if at all. Neither he nor Nick had found opportunity as yet to whistle for the police. They had been kept too busy ever since the need had arisen so suddenly, and now it was out of the question.

Even if Patsy had dared to withdraw either weapon in order to use his police whistle—which would have been a risky experiment as things were—the move would have been fruitless, for the whistle was reposing in one of the pockets of the coat which he had shed when he broke away.

There was Adelina, however.

There was a telephone in the next house, and it seemed more than likely that his wife had grown somewhat alarmed before that, over their long absence, and had telephoned for the bluecoats.

Besides, it seemed probable that she had heard the sounds of strife and knew that her friends were meeting with vigorous resistance.

Patsy hoped that she had taken some such action, but he had good reason to know that station houses are a considerable distance apart in that section of the Bronx, and policemen not as numerous as they might be.

That being so, assistance might easily fail to arrive in time to save them from more or less ignominious defeat, if nothing worse.

Patsy was not so much preoccupied, though, that he neglected to offer up a brief prayer—or something very like one—that Adelina might not feel called upon to take a hand herself.

There was nothing she could do, and he did not wish to have her expose herself to unnecessary danger.

The crisis came unexpectedly, but in a manner so simple that Nick’s assistant mentally kicked himself for not foreseeing it.

Doctor Siebold suddenly gave a leap, not toward Patsy but to one side. The act took him out of sight in a moment, so far as the young detective’s range of vision was concerned as he looked in through the door of the operating room.

“Follow me, Chester,” he called, “and you, Graves. We’ll show this fellow a trick or two in half a minute!”

Two of the other doctors instantly followed his example, knowing that a step or two would put them in safety.

In a flash Patsy guessed what the move meant. Almost immediately the sound of an opening door confirmed his suspicions.

He had been too busy, while in the operating room, to notice whether there were any other doors opening in it, aside from the one which communicated with the hall. It was evident now, however, that there was at least one other, between the operating room and the next one to the rear.

Siebold meant to reach the hall by that route and take Patsy in the rear.

The young Irishman would soon be between two fires, and still there was no sign of the police.

CHAPTER VII.

PRISONERS.

“Shoot him down, you fools!” screamed Grantley, who had been emboldened by the removal of the muzzle from his ribs. “And a couple of you go next door and get the woman. Go the back way. The street is probably full of gaping idiots, drawn by the explosion. Don’t let them see you.”

The young detective’s heart sank at the words. Adelina was in danger, and he could do nothing to help her.

In a rage, he kicked Grantley in the head and had the satisfaction of hearing a shuddering sigh at his feet. He could not look down, but he felt sure that Grantley was unconscious. The kick had been a powerful one.

The vivisectionist’s brutal advice had its effect, however, and spurred on his reluctant followers. One of those in the operating room leaped aside and made for the door, and Siebold sent one of the two who had accompanied him to join the first and carry out Grantley’s instructions.

The die was cast.

Patsy’s enemies ceased to hang back and content themselves with halfway measures. Their fears were forgotten, and, although most of them probably did not know what was to come of it, their leader’s words inflamed them.

Almost immediately a shot rang out in the narrow hall. Siebold had fired at Nick’s assistant.

The latter stiffened expectantly, involuntarily, but the bullet sang past his head and was embedded in the wall beyond. Siebold had missed.

The weapon in Patsy’s right hand answered at once, and although it was impossible for its owner to see what success it had had, he heard a startled, agonized exclamation, followed by a fall.

He could not be sure of the voice, but he had an unwelcome feeling that it was not Siebold he had hit, but his sole remaining companion.

If that was the case, luck was certainly against him, for Siebold was the only one remaining who had a revolver.

But if Grantley’s assistant was still on his feet—which later proved to be the case—he had no time to fire again, for one of the three men still in the operating room relieved him of that responsibility.

It was Doctor Willard, the man with the reddish hair, who was one of the two whom Cooke had pointed out to Nick.

Just after Patsy had fired at random, and while he was listening for the effect of his shot, Willard swung aloft the heavy chair across the back of which he had been leaning, and let it fly straight at Patsy’s head.

By some strange freak of chance it cleared the narrow doorway and struck its mark fairly and squarely in the chest.

Patsy had seen it coming, but the distance between him and Willard had been too short to allow him to dodge, even if he had wished to abandon his vantage point in front of the door.

He counted on its striking the doorjamb, and, by the time it hurtled through the opening without touching the side, it was too late to guard himself.

Both of his weapons went off as the chair struck him, owing to the unconscious tightening of his fingers on the triggers, but the shots went wild.

The impact was a vicious one.

It knocked the breath completely out of the young detective’s body and flung him violently against the wall of the passage behind him.

Before he could begin to recover himself, half a dozen hands were laid upon him at once and he was borne to the floor. Such resistance as he was able to make was quickly overcome, and he was bound and gagged.

It was a bitter dose, but Patsy took it philosophically, an example of the uncertain fortunes of the business which he followed.

It was characteristic of him that he gave little thought to the plight of himself and his companions, more to the peril of Adelina, and most to the condition of the unfortunate girl whom they had attempted in vain to rescue.

The worst of it was that she would doubtless soon be coming out from under the influence of the anæsthetic, and the agony and unimaginable shock of her condition might easily prove fatal.

Surely, though, his wife had sent for the police by that time and they would arrive soon. If they did, the first thing to be done would be to give the girl more ether and then rush her to a hospital. That was more important even than the capture of those who had cut into her so mercilessly.

But help seemed as far away as ever.

There was a hasty consultation, in which Doctor Siebold took a leading part, and then Patsy was blindfolded and dragged away, after being whirled around several times in order to confuse him and cause him to lose his sense of direction.

Nick, who was exhibiting faint signs of returning consciousness, and Doctor Cooke, who was still dead to the world, were similarly treated.

Patsy tried to keep track of his surroundings, but failed.

He only knew that he was roughly dragged along the hall—in which direction he could not tell—hustled through no less than three doors, and then—after some heavy furniture had been moved, apparently to uncover a trapdoor—was yanked up and down on a rope.

When his captors got through with him, he could not have told, to save his life, whether he was on the same floor as the operating room, the one above it, or the one below it—that is, from anything which his confusing route had told him.

And the only reason he was inclined to believe that he was in the cellar was that the air had a musty, subterranean smell.

Two other prisoners—Nick and the young surgeon, beyond a doubt—were soon dumped in on top of him.

Evidently their prison was very small, and the closeness of the air suggested that it had long been closed up.

Perhaps ten minutes later a fourth prisoner was unceremoniously added to the growing heap, but the additional weight was not great. Patsy’s instincts told him that Adelina was probably the latest arrival.

The thought gave him a sickening sensation.

If his young wife had been seized, no one was left on the outside with anything like a definite knowledge of their whereabouts.

To be sure, Nick’s other assistants knew the situation in a general way, but they were not aware that an attempt to force Doctor Grantley’s hand was to have been made that night. Nick had not been sure that he would act until the last moment.

They would doubtless take steps, sooner or later, to learn what had happened, but, in the meantime, unless Adelina had called up the police before her capture, almost anything might happen.

Grantley had unmistakably revealed his vindictiveness and willingness to go to any length. When he was himself again, therefore, his influence would be in the highest degree antagonistic, rather than otherwise.

That was doubtless what Siebold and the rest were waiting for—to get orders from Grantley for the final disposal of their enemies.

But Patsy was to experience still another shock.

Almost immediately after the fourth prisoner had been thrown upon the indiscriminate heap, a fifth form was added to it.

For perhaps half a minute Patsy puzzled over the identity of this latest arrival; then, in a flash, he guessed the harrowing truth.

It must be the Jewish girl, the vivisectionist’s victim; and she had almost certainly been brought there—unquestionably more dead than alive—to get her out of the way in case the bluecoats should search the house.

CHAPTER VIII.

A SINISTER CELL.

It was a clever arrangement—altogether too clever for comfort. Nick and his assistants had encountered its like more than once, and it could not have deceived them for long; it might easily prove too much for the police, however, even if they made an investigation.

Nick’s other assistants could be counted on to solve the problem when they finally obtained access to the house—if they could—but it would probably be too late then. Much too late, in fact.

The hole into which the prisoners had been thrown could hardly be more than eight feet square, if that much, and it was not likely that it was more than four feet deep.

It was closed at the top now, and the sides were doubtless fairly tight, in order that no cracks of any size should reveal the hollow space behind.

That meant an appallingly small number of cubic feet of air—and bad air at that—for five people to breathe, assuming that the young Jewess was not yet dead.

As Patsy analyzed his sensations, he became aware of a peculiar and sinister odor, which pervaded the place. For some time he could not identify it, but at length, with a start of horror, he realized its nature.

There was no doubt about it in his mind now, or about the criminality of their captors.

For the odor was that of lime, mingled with a faint stench of decaying animal matter.

That was the way that Patsy put it to himself, at any rate, but he more than suspected that the “animal matter” had been human flesh.

In other words, he was convinced that the place where they had been thrown had previously been used for the purpose of destroying the bodies of previous victims of the vivisectionists. The bodies had apparently been thrown into the old bin and covered with quicklime, which had afterward been removed.

There was only a little fine dust on the concrete floor of the bin now, as Patsy easily ascertained with his bound hands. It must either be lime or coal dust, perhaps a combination of the two; for the young detective had felt the latter sifting down through the cracks above his head as the coal was shoveled over the false bottom.

He could not resist a shudder as he came to this ghastly conclusion. He and his friends were in a veritable charnel house, and if Doctor Grantley had his way, there was little doubt but that quicklime would be heaped over their dead bodies—perhaps over their living ones—before long.

Something must be done, if possible. But what?

Whatever it was to be, it looked as if Patsy must attempt it unaided. Some one else was moving—some one whose body lay partly over Patsy’s. The latter believed it was his chief, but he could not be sure. Moreover, even if it was Nick, Patsy had been in full possession of his senses throughout, and was therefore in a better position to go ahead.

He wished he could communicate with Nick and get the benefit of the great detective’s advice, but that was out of the question—for the time being, at least.

Patsy was quite used to going ahead alone and relying upon his own keen wits. He did so now.

His first thought concerned his bonds themselves. Could he wriggle out of them?

His captors were not experienced criminals of the ordinary sort. Perhaps they had failed to tie him securely. Certainly they had shown their ignorance by binding his hands in front of him instead of behind.

He went to work at once, slipping his wrists back and forth and making his hands as small as possible in an effort to draw them out of the loops of rope.

Nevertheless, despite the fact that he had doubled his fists and made his wrists as large as possible while the ropes were being fastened, he found it impossible to free his hands. The knots did not give to any appreciable extent, and it was obvious that they had been tied with greater skill than Patsy had supposed.

Nick’s assistant next tried his teeth on them. This would have been out of the question if his hands had been secured behind his back, but, fortunately, they were not.

His teeth were sharp and strong, and had often been put to a similar use. It was tedious work at best, but gradually one strand after another was gnawed away.

Victory was in sight, when, to his supreme disgust, his teeth encountered something hard. He ran his tongue investigatingly over the place. The rope had a core of strong, flexible wire.

Patsy’s teeth, efficient as they were, were powerless against such an obstacle. This setback would have discouraged ninety-nine out of a hundred detectives, to say nothing of other men, but the young Irishman was not daunted.

He put his brain to work again, with the result that, after a few moments of hard thinking, he twisted his fettered hands about until the fingers of one of them could fish into the inside breast pocket of his coat.

Siebold had disarmed him, but he had not made a general search of Patsy’s pockets; consequently Nick’s assistant was still in possession of his pocket kit of folding burglars’ tools.

He drew it out, opened it awkwardly, and felt about until he located the desired article, a thin file.

The combined weight of more than one of his companions in misfortune held down his legs, but the upper part of his body was free, and one shoulder was against one of the wooden walls of the bin.

Holding the file, Patsy raised his hands and felt about for a crack. He found a small one at once, a few inches above his head. In this he pushed the handle end of the file.

He was ready for work.

He put one hand on one side of the file and the other hand on the other side, to prevent the tool from slipping away from him as he pressed against it. That done, he began to draw the exposed wire to and fro over the file.

The sound could not be muffled, but it was slight. In any case, it was not likely to bring disaster, for Patsy felt sure that the cellar had been vacated by their captors after the coal was thrown into place.

He kept his ears open for sounds of approach, however, and went at his task with a will. The wire was not more than an eighth of an inch in diameter, and was soon filed through.

That did not mean release, however, and Nick’s assistant kept on sawing away at the rope itself until it frayed out and gave access to another core of wire.

That, too, was severed in the course of time, and, after a few jerks, the ropes on Patsy’s wrists fell away.

His hands were free, and with them once more fully at his command, he made short work of his gag.

“Chief!” he whispered cautiously, “I’m loose—partly—and I’m going to make a stab at getting you out of here. Are you all right?”

There came a muffled sound in reply to Patsy’s question.

CHAPTER IX.

AN INTERRUPTED ESCAPE.

Patsy then went on to tell his chief what he knew and suspected. A few crisp words were sufficient, and after that he explained what he thought would be the best move for them to make.

Nick approved the plan. Neither of them wasted any time in outlining their course of action after they should get out of the bin. That must take care of itself, and would naturally be governed by circumstances.

Nick’s bonds were soon entirely removed, and the detective turned his attention to the others, while Patsy removed the dead weight from his own legs and attacked the ropes which bound his ankles.

Nick’s little pocket flash lamp had not been taken away from him. It was now brought into use, since there was apparently no one in the cellar to see its light.

The sight which it revealed was a most painful one, through the chinks of the bin.

Doctor Cooke was still unconscious. At first glance it seemed that he must be dead, but the detective quickly ascertained, with an exclamation of relief, that the young surgeon’s heart was beating strongly.

Reassured by this, Nick threw the light upon Adelina Garvan. Patsy was entirely free by that time and pressed forward anxiously. His wife was conscious and seemingly unhurt, although she had been bound like the rest.

“Is it all right, dear?” her young husband asked eagerly.

She gave a nod.

“Then the chief will cut you loose. Unfortunately, I have other fish to fry.”

“Yes, you had better get busy,” Nick agreed. “It will save time if I attend to Adelina while you’re trying to force your way out.”

“By the way, did you send for any ‘brass buttons’?” Patsy asked his wife suddenly.

This time she shook her head, and a look of distress came into her expressive dark eyes.

Her husband bent suddenly and extracted the gag from her mouth.

“Why not?” he inquired gently, striving to conceal his disappointment.

“I—I thought you would whistle if you wanted me to,” Adelina replied apologetically. “It didn’t seem possible that they could down all three of you without giving you a chance to signal to me, and I was afraid of ‘gumming things up,’ as you call it. Just before they seized me, though, the police were coming—to investigate the explosion, I suppose. But I didn’t have any chance to call out—I was so taken by surprise. They came in the back way and I thought it was you and the chief.”

“Never mind, little woman!” Nick spoke up consolingly. “You couldn’t help it. Get to work, Patsy. We haven’t any time to lose. It isn’t likely, under the circumstances, that the police will search Grantley’s house, and there’s no knowing how soon those scoundrels may come for us again.”

Patsy waited, however, until Nick had flashed the light on the other figure. The suspense was painful.

Yes, as he had suspected, the fifth occupant of the bin was the Jewish girl. The sheet which had partially covered her on the operating table had been wrapped about her.

Her bare feet and shoulders protruded from it and were as white as the muslin itself. She lay in a position which suggested that she did not have a bone in her body, so strangely twisted was it.

The detective bent forward reluctantly and drew down the sheet. He felt it necessary—after ascertaining that she was still breathing faintly—to see in what condition her wound had been left.

Her heart had evidently been replaced, for a bandage, tightly drawn, had been wrapped about her body under the arms.

It was stained with blood, and there was little doubt that the terrible opening had not been sewn up at all. The bandage was merely a temporary one, resorted to for the sake of keeping her alive, if possible, until Grantley should determine what was to be done with her and the others.

The vivisectionists’ victim was still alive, and that was about all that could be said. Patsy had seen enough. He left Nick to care for her and Adelina, and turned his attention to the walls of their strange prison.

Their place of confinement was even smaller than he had supposed, and the air was already stifling, and it was being breathed much faster than it could possibly be renewed through the tiny cracks between the boards.

Patsy’s head was already beginning to feel as if there was an iron band around it, which was being drawn tighter and tighter. The memory of the girl’s deathly pallor and the bloodstained bandage sickened him, under the circumstances, to an unaccustomed extent.

Patsy selected a collapsible jimmy from his set of tools. This he pushed out to its fullest length, then, armed with it, he attacked the boards at one side of the bin.

He preferred to make his attempt there, rather than in front, because, if he made any headway, their enemies would not be so likely to see what was going on as soon as they set foot again in the cellar.

Before doing so, however, he had cautiously tapped on the side chosen, and produced a hollow sound, which told him that there were no obstructions on the other side of the plank wall—none, at least, which were immediately in contact with the boards.

His little tool, a slender rod of iron, not much more than a foot in length, seemed inadequate. Patsy knew what it could do, though, and just how to use it to the best advantage.

In his skilled hands it immediately began to bring results which seemed out of all proportion to their cause. The heavy planks, a good two inches thick, laid close together and fastened with big wire nails, started to give at once when the flattened end of the jimmy was inserted in the cracks and the tool used as a miniature crowbar.

The wire nails screeched with startling loudness as they were drawn out of the wood of the stout uprights, but that could not be avoided. Patsy worked as cautiously and slowly as the circumstances seemed to justify, and for the rest he could only hope that the occupants of the house were too far away to hear the noises he was obliged to make.

Apparently, they did not, for there was no sign of approach as yet. Soon one of the planks, about eight or ten inches wide, was pried loose sufficiently to allow it to be drawn into the bin, out of sight.

Nick, who had released Adelina and cut the ropes from the still unconscious physician, helped his assistant in this. They took care not to drop the board, and as soon as it was deposited on the concrete floor of the bin, Nick took the jimmy and attacked the next one above it.

The hole was already large enough to allow one of them to wriggle through, and Patsy, at his chief’s suggestion, took advantage of that fact.

The plan was that Patsy should secretly escape from the house, if possible, through one of the cellar windows, taking Adelina with him. He could then summon help and return.

It would have greatly increased their difficulties to have tried to remove the mutilated girl at that time—aside from the probability that such an attempt, without proper conveniences, would kill her outright.

As for Doctor Cooke, he was coming to under Adelina’s ministrations, but it would be some time before he was on his feet again and able to cope with the difficulties involved.

Consequently, Nick decided to remain where he was and guard his two charges as well as he could, in the absence of weapons, while Patsy and Adelina sought a way out. Moreover, while he was waiting for the result of the sally, he meant to enlarge the opening, in order that the girl could be removed as soon as the way was cleared for the summoning of an ambulance.

Adelina wished to stay, but Nick made her see that that was useless. She accordingly followed Patsy through the narrow space between the boards.

They found themselves in another coal bin—an honest one this time. There was a ton or so of coal in it, but it sloped up toward the opposite wall and the back in such a way that it did not interfere with their escape.

They proceeded very cautiously, nevertheless, for there was a little coal underfoot and it had a tendency to roll under their feet and set the main mass to sliding.

They gained the front of the bin without making much noise, and Patsy climbed over. He was just in the act of helping his wife to do likewise, when their hearts stopped for a moment.

They heard footsteps over their heads, followed by the opening of a door.

Immediately afterward came voices, distinctly audible, and the creak of stairs close at hand.

The cellar was being entered again—and by their foes.

CHAPTER X.

PATSY TO THE FRONT.

“This is an awful thing that you are planning to do, Doctor Grantley,” said a voice, which Patsy recognized as that of the assistant, Siebold. “It isn’t the mere taking of lives that I’m thinking about now. That has come to mean comparatively little to us, although we have never murdered anybody in cold blood, for the sake of murder, or any personal reason. We’ve experimented on plenty of people, though, knowing that there wasn’t one chance of recovery in a hundred; and there isn’t so very much difference between that and downright murder. But think what this means—think of Nick Carter’s fame and the rumpus his disappearance will cause! We’ve made a clean sweep next door, but he must have other associates, who will know why he was living up here. They’ll put the police wise, and between them they’ll make short work of arresting us and turning this house inside out.”

While Doctor Siebold had been speaking, he and his companions—for it turned out that there were two of them—had passed Patsy’s hiding place and paused in front of the trick bin.

“Well, let them!” Grantley answered, in a voice that was thick and harsh with rage. “Nobody—I don’t care who—can stick his nose into my affairs and try to make me out a criminal just because I choose to risk a few worthless lives. This confounded Carter couldn’t prove anything, but he and that fool, Cooke, could have me hounded from pillar to post. My work is far too important to permit it to be interfered with by any such meddlesome blunderers. They must take the consequences. As for there being any ‘comeback,’ that is out of the question. At any rate, I’m willing to take the risk, and I pay you fellows to do the same. We’re all in it, and we must hang together. If you balk, either you or Hoff, here, you’ll go the same way. I give you fair warning. They can arrest us if they want to, but they’ll find nothing to convict us—I promise you that. There are several carboys of that new acid of ours upstairs. After we have given them a bath in that there won’t be a trace of any of them left. And when we get through with it, we can pour it down a drain. Fortunately, it hasn’t any odor to speak of, and no one will ever know the difference. Then we can clean everything up here in the cellar and elsewhere, and sit tight. The police have been sent away none the wiser, and it isn’t likely that they’ll bother us again to-night. Everything will be quiet until Carter’s friends begin to get uneasy, and when that happens, we’ll be prepared for anything. Get to work, Hoff, and open that door!”

Patsy was at a loss to understand what door was meant, but he had no doubt that his chief was in danger of discovery. Therefore, he leaned over until his lips touched Adelina’s ears.

“Wait until I give them something to think about,” he breathed, “and then slip upstairs. I think the others have gone. Go next door and telephone.”

His wife nodded silently. Patsy might be mistaken about the other doctors. It was more than possible that she would run into them before she could get out of the house. Nevertheless, she was game.

They heard the jingling of keys, and then a rasping, as of a padlock being removed. Following that came the creaking of rusty hinges.

They could not see what was going on. If they had been able to, they would have been greatly surprised, for the two lower boards at the front of the bin in which they had been confined formed a rude door, which was being opened outward by Hoff.

Patsy had not investigated the front of the bin, having preferred to force his way out at one side. Even if he had discovered evidences of the door, however, the padlock on the outside would have prevented him from taking advantage of the fact.

Incidentally, this padlock, being in plain sight from the outside, showed that there had been no attempt to conceal the existence of the door.

Obviously, those responsible for its presence had assumed that, in the case of a possible search of the premises, it would be accounted for on the theory that it was used to facilitate the removal of coal from underneath.

Patsy was somewhat mystified by the turn affairs had taken, and could not understand how the door alluded to by Grantley could give the rascals access to his friends. Nevertheless, his instinct told him that such must be the case.

He felt in the barrel behind which he was hiding. Luckily it was nearly full of odds and ends of junk, including several pieces of old iron, evidently parts of a kitchen range.

Patsy seized upon one of these fragments. It must have been part of the top of the stove, along the edge, for it included one straight side about fifteen inches long and parts of two stove holes, with jagged edges between.

It was likely to prove a formidable weapon in Patsy’s hands.

The young detective lost no time in pulling it out of the barrel. He was obliged to make a noise in so doing, but the time for care had passed. It was haste that was demanded at that stage, for he wished to attract the attention of the trio, and thereby cover emergence from the bin, as well as Adelina’s flight.

“What was that?” demanded Grantley.

The words had barely left the vivisectionist’s lips before Patsy burst from the shadows and ran forward with his rude weapon uplifted.

“You know me all right, gentlemen!” he called, with a grin of defiance.

“In the fiend’s name!” ejaculated Grantley, starting back. “How did——”

As he advanced, Patsy swept the scene with a quick glance. He saw that the front of the fake bin gaped open and that Hoff was just in the act of straightening up, with one hand still on the little door.

If Hoff had already seen anything out of the way inside, though, he had had no time to communicate the fact to his companions.

Nick’s assistant had taken all three of them completely by surprise, and it was obvious that they were either unarmed or too dumfounded to draw their weapons. It was quite possible that the former was the case, for they could not have foreseen any need for firearms in handling the prisoners whom they had bound so securely.

At any rate, Patsy was already within arm’s reach of Grantley, who was the nearest of the trio.

The surgeon was far from a coward, but in the face of this unexpected onslaught he could only back toward his allies. His manner was still dazed, and his eyes were fastened unwinkingly on Patsy, in the manner of a fascinated squirrel under the spell of a boa constrictor.

It was not until the strange weapon was actually descending that he recovered his presence of mind enough to dodge—or try to do so.

He succeeded only partially, however. The piece of iron missed his head by a fraction of an inch, but descended with numbing force on the muscles of his right shoulder.

Hoff had tried to protect him, but the German’s interference came a little too late to be very effective. He thrust his staggering employer aside, however, and jumped at Patsy before the latter could recover for another blow.

Patsy gave back a step or two and thus came close to the front of the coal bin, that adjoined the one with the false bottom.

The German was larger and much more fully muscled than the young detective. It looked as if the latter was pitted against more than his match. But Patsy was not daunted in the least. He was chiefly concerned just then with the hope that his wife would not delay her attempt to escape and that Nick would be able to crawl out of the hole before he was discovered.

“Ach! So?” snarled Hoff. “Ve shall see!”

He caught Patsy’s upraised wrist in a powerful grip and one of his big arms went around the young man’s waist. Patsy felt himself being bent backward from the hips in a way that was far from agreeable.

Despite Hoff’s hold, he managed to toss the piece of iron into the coal bin. It was only in his way now, but he did not care to drop it where one of his enemies could possess himself of it without any trouble.

As soon as he was relieved of this encumbrance, he began to do his best to break Hoff’s hold. He was master of hundreds of tricks of ordinary wrestling and jujutsu. Moreover, his suppleness and rapidity of motion went no little way to offset Hoff’s brute strength and ponderous bulk.

The result, for the time being, was something surprisingly like a draw.

The German pinned his lighter antagonist against the front of the bin of coal, but Patsy’s lithe wrigglings prevented him from bringing the struggle to a conclusion.

As for Grantley and Siebold, they made no attempt to take a hand, on the assumption that Hoff ought to be able to handle Patsy alone.

They were too much interested in the struggle, however, to realize the full significance of Patsy’s escape from captivity, or to look into the hole to see if any of their other prisoners had escaped.

There was a gas jet close to Siebold, which he had lighted with the aid of the candle as soon as Hoff had engaged Patsy. The gas was turned low, to keep it from attracting attention on the outside, but it illuminated the cellar sufficiently for them to see a skulking form beyond the combatants—a skirted form, that was creeping stealthily toward the stairs.

Doctor Siebold discovered it first and seized Grantley’s arm.

“Look there!” he cried, in alarm. “Another is loose—the girl!”

It was indeed Adelina whom he had seen, and she had heard the exclamation. It warned her that no time was to be lost.

She broke into a run, while Patsy ground his teeth at the mishap which had revealed her, and Siebold sprang forward, in pursuit.

The chase was arrested the next moment, however, in a startling way.

“Look out!” shouted Grantley.

His tone was peremptory and shrill with excited warning.

Siebold paused abruptly and turned his head. Grantley was not looking after the scurrying girl at all, but at the bin, just above the heads of the struggling men.

A head and a pair of upraised arms, with something grasped threateningly with both hands, had suddenly appeared there, the rest of the body being hidden by the boards which formed the front of the coal bin.

“Hoff!” cried Siebold.

But his warning was too late. A heavy shovel whistled through the air and descended with a sickening thud on the German’s head.

CHAPTER XI.

VARYING FORTUNES.

The handle of the shovel narrowly missed Patsy’s head, but Nick knew what he was about. The heavy metal scoop landed fairly on Hoff’s cranium, and the German crumpled up in the arms of the astonished assistant, who let the body of his antagonist drop to the floor.

An instant later Nick was vaulting over the barrier.

The young Irishman picked up the shovel. He did not wait for his chief to alight, nor did he apparently pay any attention to Adelina, whose feet were pattering on the stairs by that time. It was enough for him to hear them and to know that he could now prevent her from being followed.

He singled out Doctor Siebold and sprang at him, whirling the big shovel aloft as he did so, and leaving Nick to attend to Grantley. He knew that the detective would prefer to deal with the ringleader himself.

Siebold was unarmed, and a hasty, panic-stricken survey of his surroundings failed to reveal anything in the nature of a weapon within reach.

Suddenly, however, he leaped toward the gas jet and turned the thumbscrew. Immediately the cellar was plunged in darkness, except for a faint light, which filtered down the distant stairs from the lighted hallway above.

Nick’s assistant had read Siebold’s purpose, but he was too far away to thwart it. He dropped the shovel, however, as soon as the light went out, and flung himself toward the place where Siebold had been standing.

His outstretched arms encountered empty air and then the rough, whitewashed wall, to which the gas bracket was fastened. But his keen ears caught a noise just to the right. He knew in a second that Siebold had dodged in that direction and could not be more than a foot or two away.

Sheering off from the wall, he plunged recklessly in pursuit, leaning as far forward as he dared, every sense on the alert to catch the slightest hint of Siebold’s movements.

It was evident at once that the assistant surgeon had made a foolish blunder. If he had dodged to Patsy’s left, instead of his right, the young detective would have necessarily been between him and the light on the stairs. As it was, though, he was between Patsy and the light, and his antagonist saw his form dimly outlined as Siebold took another tack.

Patsy’s eyes had not yet accustomed themselves to the changed conditions, but they were in much better shape to see what was going on than the average person’s would have been under like circumstances. Consequently, he made out as much as was necessary, and instantly changed his own course.

Simultaneously, he bounded forward with added confidence and impetuosity. The result was that he grasped Siebold’s coat almost immediately.

The young surgeon tried to wriggle out of the garment, but before he could free himself, Patsy had grasped both of his arms and brought him to a halt.

Siebold was at a disadvantage because he was half out of and half in his coat, and, consequently, his resistance was not what it might have been otherwise.

He fought desperately, in a frenzy of fear, while curse after curse passed his writhing lips. But Patsy hung on with comparative ease.

Gradually the young doctor’s wrists were brought together behind his back. Then, to make sure that Siebold would not break away while one of his captor’s hands was temporarily withdrawn, Patsy deliberately tripped him and fell as heavily as he could on top.

While Siebold was gasping for breath to replace that which the unexpected fall had knocked out of him, Nick’s assistant reached into his pocket, produced a pair of handcuffs, and snapped them into place.

Siebold was not likely to give further trouble just then. In fact, Patsy intimated as much to his captive, and added:

“So just lie there and think it over while I throw some light on this business again.”

He had scarcely regained his feet before there was a clatter and the sound of a heavy fall. An exclamation accompanied it, which told Patsy that it was his chief who had gone down. Besides, there could be little doubt that it was the shovel which had tripped his chief, while the latter was scouting about in the darkness on Grantley’s trail.

He had dropped the shovel near the gas fixture, so that the sound now helped to guide him toward his objective point. He did not speak to Nick, however, for he was afraid, if the latter answered, that the sound of his voice would help Grantley to locate him, in case the scoundrelly surgeon was game enough to pounce upon his discomfited enemy instead of taking that opportunity to steal away.

Patsy’s thoughtful precaution was useless. Before he could reach his fallen chief, or the detective could scramble to his feet, Grantley had turned back and leaped upon Carter with all the fury of desperation and murderous resolve.

Nick had been expecting that move on the part of the vivisectionist, and listening for it. He was still on his knees, but he had laid hold of the shovel to keep it out of Grantley’s hands.

The surgeon’s impetuous rush caused him almost to fall over the detective’s arched body. He came from one side, at an angle, and the impact threw Nick over again. His side struck one of the sharp edges of the shovel, which he had not been able to get out of the way.

An involuntary exclamation escaped him as a pain stabbed him through and through. His grip on the handle of the shovel relaxed for a moment. The next instant Grantley’s groping hands had found it and jerked it from under him.

“Now, curse you,” the surgeon cried, “we’ll see how you like your own medicine!”

Again the shovel was upraised, this time over Nick’s own head.

The detective forgot his aching side. Grantley’s knees were gripping his legs, as they might have gripped the side of a horse, but the vivisectionist had been compelled to use both hands to swing the shovel upward.

With surprising ease, Nick flung the upper part of his body around until his head and shoulders were close to Grantley’s left knee.

As he did so, the ponderous weapon descended. Its target had shifted, however, and the shovel rang against the concrete floor with a force that stung Grantley’s hands.

At the same instant the detective’s arms reached up and shot around his waist—and the darkness fled.

The struggle had been taking place directly between Patsy and the gas jet, with the result that Nick’s assistant had halted uncertainly and peered forward for a few seconds. He did not hesitate long, though, for it suddenly occurred to him that his flash lamp had probably been left undisturbed, as the burglar tools had been.

He was right, and it was the work of an instant only to find the electric torch and turn its rays upon the combatants. His first glance reassured him, for he saw that his chief had managed to twist himself in a position which made it impossible for Grantley to use the shovel successfully.

Instinctively Patsy’s eyes traveled from them to the fallen German. The latter was seemingly as unconscious as ever.

“Shall I finish him, chief?” the young detective asked eagerly, turning back again.

He knew that Nick had been knocked out pretty thoroughly, and saw no good reason for prolonging the fight; as a matter of fact, however, he had little hope that Nick would allow him to interfere.

“You might choke him off for me,” the detective said, with a wry face.

Evidently his side was troubling him more than he would have cared to confess.

Patsy needed nothing more. He laid down his flash lamp—which was so made that it did not require a continuous pressure on the button to remain lighted—and jumped into the fray.

His fingers went around Grantley’s neck and he jerked the surgeon backward until Nick was freed. Grantley struggled for all he was worth, but the grip on his throat did not relax. His face grew purple and congested, his tongue hung out of his slavering jaws, and still Patsy maintained that terrible hold.

Gradually the vivisectionist’s struggles became weaker and weaker, but it was not until Nick had handcuffed him that Patsy’s grip was loosened.

As soon as he had tossed the gasping and almost unconscious man aside, Patsy made for Hoff, with the intention of securing him before he should come to and give any more trouble.

He halted on the way, however, amazed to find Doctor Cooke in his path. Nick’s friend had slowly regained his senses, and, finding himself free, had crawled out of his prison house as soon as he felt it safe to do so.

He and Patsy exchanged a few hurried words, after which the latter started upstairs, to satisfy himself that all was well with Adelina.

He met her returning to the Grantley house, and learned from her that she had telephoned to the police and the nearest hospital. An ambulance and a patrol wagon, full of reserves, soon arrived. There was no longer any need of the latter, but the ambulance was very welcome.

The Jewish girl—whose name was subsequently found to be Alma Baum—was tenderly removed from the cellar and carried to the hospital, where she ultimately recovered from her terrible experience.

Grantley’s skill had made a bungling job impossible, despite the highly dangerous nature of the inexcusable operation which had been performed upon her.