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ARTHUR B. REEVE

THE DOOR OF DREAD

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First published in Cosmopolitan, January 1918

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2021
Version Date: 2022-09-30

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Cosmopolitan, January 1918, with "The Door of Dread"



War-time plots and the schemes of traitors continue to engage the attention of Craig Kennedy. And very often there is an element of heart-interest in them, too—as in the present case, where a distracted lover solicits the help of the great detective in a mystery which he has two powerful reasons for solving.




"WHAT would you do, Professor Kennedy, if the girl you loved had disappeared—and there was no trace of where she had gone?"

Lieutenant Stanley Dillard, U.S.N., leaned forward nervously as he poured forth to us an amazing story. "I've done everything I can think of to find her," went on the young officer excitedly. "Her mother, of course, is frantic. For Viva Gordon is a stunning-looking girl—and that may be dangerous, you know. Viva's father is dead, and she has no brothers. So, you see, I have had to take up this thing all alone—and—and it's too much for me. I had heard of you, and I felt sure that you could help me."

"Is there absolutely no trace of her, no clue?" asked Kennedy, immediately interested.

"As nearly as I can find out," Dillard replied doubtfully, "Viva was last seen at the garage of Nicholas Lynar two days ago. Lynar has a small automobile-repair shop. It is in one of the old houses, a quaint old place along the north shore of Staten Island. You see, Viva was a very athletic girl and fond of motoring. The Gordons have a pretty fair income and her motor was her one extravagance. Well, she used to have all her repair work done at Lynar's. Several days ago she took her car there for some adjustments. It is there yet, in the shop, the changes and repairs made, but Lynar knows nothing—at least, that's what he says."

"The case has been reported to the police?" questioned Craig.

"Yes; the night that she didn't come back her mother appealed to them. But what of that?" he added bitterly. "The police have given us no help. They gave me to understand that they considered the case no different from hundreds of other cases of missing girls. My God, man, are tragedies like this merely commonplaces to them?"

Just then our telephone-bell rang, not that of our private telephone, but the house-line from the switchboard downstairs. Kennedy reached over to answer it and, a moment later, handed the instrument to Dillard.

"For me?" asked the lieutenant, in unfeigned surprise. "Why, I didn't tell a soul that I was coming to see you! Hello—hello—who is this?" Dillard jiggled the hook until finally he got back the hall-boy down-stairs.

Evidently the explanation from the front hall was unsatisfactory. Kennedy motioned to let him do the talking, and for some time he quizzed the boy. As he hung up, he turned inquiringly to Dillard.

"There was some one calling," he asserted. "The boy says that some one asked if there was a Lieutenant Dillard in Professor Kennedy's apartment. Between the time I answered and you took the telephone, the voice on the wire said to the hall-boy, 'Tell him he's a fool—and it will go harder with him if he doesn't quit,' and then the caller hung up. Have you any idea who it could be?"

Dillard was staring blankly at us.

"Not an idea," he confessed, startled. "Who could have known I was here? No one. I must have been followed. I tell you, the thing is deep. At every point I seem to be anticipated. It's enough to drive me mad. What does it all mean?"

Kennedy shrugged.

"Have you told me all?" he asked.

"No," exclaimed Dillard; "now, there's one other thing; I was coming to it. I ought to be worried over that, too—and I am worried—but this disappearance of Viva knocks it out of my mind—at times. You know—or, rather, you don't know, of course, that I am stationed down on Staten Island at the American Shipyards Company to supervise for the government the building of ten standardized cargo-ships, steel ships of five thousand tons each. You do not know it yet, but two of the ships which I am supervising have been blown up—in the very yards—on the stocks."

He paused a moment, and drew back to observe the effect on us of the startling statement. So effective had been the censorship that not a breath of the thing had leaked out into the newspaper offices.

"It isn't my first trouble since I was assigned to this duty," raced on Dillard, seeing that he had already enlisted our interest if not yet our services. "Since I have told you this much, let me give you the whole history of the affair."

Kennedy nodded encouragement.

"Well," explained Dillard rapidly, "almost as soon as we started work on the keels, I found that many of the ship-plates, castings, and structural shapes were not up to the standard and were even defective. To cut a long story short, I was not able to fix the blame for much that went on, but I have overcome that by having a most rigid inspection. I put the matter up to Archer squarely. He is the engineer at the plant. Since then we have had very little trouble. I know Archer doesn't like me, but I have to hold him up to the specifications. Besides, what sort of traitor would I be to neglect a square inch or a bolt? Why, I could be court-martialed!"

"What happened then?" prompted Kennedy.

"Then we had some trouble with labor, with the riggers, riveters, steel-workers, machine-shop operators—all of them. First, it was over wages and hours. But we settled that. Still there was agitation and dissatisfaction. I began to think that it was inspired. However, I settled all that finally by putting the matter up to Rogers, the foreman. After that we had only picked men. I insisted on it and did most of the picking. Things seemed to be moving along smoothly when—bang!— comes this new thing." Dillard paused, his fists clenched and his features set as he faced us. "This last trouble—these explosions—is beyond them all, though. Of course, I got the secret service into the case. But I don't think they are any further along than when they started."

"How long ago was the first explosion?" inquired Craig.

"The day before Viva disappeared. The second one was the day after. You see, they were coming every other day. We are about due for another."

"Haven't you found any cause for the explosion—I mean no tentative explanation?" I asked.

"There doesn't seem to be any explanation—at least, none that I can think of," returned Dillard frankly, "unless they were due to bombs. How bombs could be placed there is beyond me. The workmen are all picked men. There's not one I can say that I would not trust. The strange thing to me is that the explosions seem always to take place at night, if that may mean anything. I have investigated them, and I would like to have you. Professor Kennedy, come over and look at the wrecks. Perhaps they may suggest something to you."

Dillard paused a moment, while Kennedy reviewed the situation silently and rapidly. The curious, threatening telephone-call intensified the mystery. Craig was keenly interested.

"You had been engaged to Miss Gordon some time?" asked Kennedy.

"Only a few days; I first met her several weeks ago."

"She was familiar with your work?"

"Quite. Viva was an exceptional girl. That is what drew us together. It was her advice, her help, that always spurred me when things were darkest at the yards. Yes, indeed; she knew about my work."

"But I mean about the explosions—the first one—she knew about that?"'

"Yes; I told her in confidence."

Kennedy smiled encouragingly. "I don't mean to put you on the defensive," he explained. "I am trying to get at the real conditions—establish some relationship among the facts you have laid before me. Don't hesitate to tell me anything of your suspicions, no matter how trivial. Now, who is this garage keeper, Lynar?"

"A rather clever fellow, I imagine," Dillard answered guardedly. "They tell me, around the yards, that he has worked out an invention of a new aerial torpedo. The rumor is that he can do anything he wants with the thing—can explode it either before or after it penetrates the object at which it is aimed."

"Has Lynar done anything toward getting it accepted?"

"I understand that he has offered it to the government. But really I know nothing about it. And Lynar is one of these close-mouthed inventors, a silent, suspicious sort of fellow. Really," Dillard confided, "when I was there at his shop I got the impression that Lynar had something—some secret. What it is, I have no idea. Perhaps it is this torpedo of his."

"It may be," considered Kennedy, thinking aloud, "that the explosions and the disappearance of Viva are really related in some way to one another."

"That's what I have been thinking," agreed Dillard. "I have been wondering whether it might not be possible that Viva had found something—something that made it necessary for some one to get her out of the way."

Dillard spoke hollowly. He seemed unwilling to face the shuddering possibility that he himself feared.

"Perhaps," remarked Kennedy tentatively. "At any rate, I feel inclined to take your own estimate of the relative values of the cases and begin on the case of Viva Gordon."

Dillard grasped his hand as he spoke. Of course, to him, the disappearance of Viva was paramount, say whatever he might about his duty. As for Kennedy, he was continually sizing things up by their human values. It was one thing that had always stamped Craig in my mind as unique among crime investigators.

It was now only a matter of a few minutes while Kennedy and Dillard pledged to help each other, and we were then on our way in Dillard's car to visit Lynar's shop.


WE crossed the ferry and were soon in the vicinity of the shipyard. As we swung round a bend in the road, Dillard leaned over and bowed to a young lady walking hurriedly along the sidewalk. A moment later, he pulled his car up beside the curb, waiting for her to catch up with us.

"It is Laurel Rogers, sister of the foreman at the plant," Dillard explained, before she approached. "She and Viva were often together in Viva's car. Perhaps she has something new to tell us."

Laurel Rogers was a very pretty girl, with masses of fluffy light hair that set off her beautiful deep-blue eyes most effectively.

"Have you heard anything about Viva yet?" she cried, as she approached, scarcely waiting to be introduced to us in her eagerness to put her question. "Nothing? Oh, I cannot tell you how worried it has made me! It is terrible—terrible!"

I saw that she knew of the explosions. But then, I reflected, that was not strange, since her brother was foreman of the yards.

It was with a start that I awoke to the fact, an instant later, that Miss Laurel was playing her eyes for their full value on Dillard as they talked. I watched keenly to see whether he was proof. Apparently, he did not even know it. But from that moment, Laurel became an interesting character to me.

Dillard had left the motor running, and now, as it raced once or twice, it became evident that Laurel was reluctant to let us go. I wondered whether it was pique at not having made a conquest of Dillard. At least, whatever might be her anxiety for Viva, she had a deep interest in Dillard himself. I watched him furtively at the same time. To my surprise, he seemed not even to be aware that she showed such interest in him as he bowed easily and shot the speedster ahead.

"Laurel came here with her brother just before I was assigned to the works," explained Dillard, without a trace of embarrassment. "I believe that Archer is quite smitten. You can hardly blame him, can you?"

"A remarkably pretty girl," agreed Craig. "There is something very fascinating about her."

"And popular, too," Dillard added. "Oh, there are any number who would give anything to be in Archer's shoes!"

He said it, oblivious of her interest in himself. He evidently was not one of those who thought that every girl must go mad over him.

"She and her brother have a car which they keep at Lynar's," recollected Dillard as we spun along. "He is so busy that she uses it mostly. I guess Lynar would have held up all his other customers for Viva and Laurel. He has a keen eye for beauty. You'll find him an interesting chap—much more than an average garage-keeper. I hope you can puzzle him out more successfully than I can."

As we approached Lynar's shop, I noted that it was not far from the stockade line about the shipyards. It was a picturesque old house of a former generation, one part of which had been altered for a garage, and the rest of it, almost tumbling down, bore a sign: "For Rent."

Lynar himself was a peculiar type of man, tall, spare, with a peculiar impression of ambition and ability. As I studied him closely, I recalled what Dillard had said about Lynar's attitude toward Viva and Laurel.

"I'm just as anxious as you are, Lieutenant Dillard, to find some trace of Miss Gordon," Lynar assured us. "There's her car over there. I've fixed it up—expected she would be in for it the day it was ready. But she didn't come here—at least, I didn't see her. They say that she was in the garage. Maybe she was. I don't know. I might have been back in the shop at the time—must have been."

It was impossible to say yet whether Lynar was shamming or frank. Kennedy strode over to her car, a roadster, and we followed.

"How about the cellar?" he whispered to Dillard.

"I've searched it," he replied. "Would you like to see it?"

A word to Lynar was all that was necessary. He opened the door and handed us a light.

Under the house was a small cellar, nothing like the size of the old house, yet of fair proportions as cellars go. One part of it Lynar had had altered so that he could use it as a pit to get underneath an automobile.

About the rest of the cellar we groped. Kennedy made a most minute and thorough examination. The floor had been cemented and, as nearly as we could determine, the cement was old and undisturbed. Besides, as he particularly noted, there were dust and cobwebs over everything.

As I have said, the remainder of the house was vacant. With Dillard we made a rapid though pretty thorough search, finding nothing. Finally, we returned to the garage, where Kennedy rejoined Lynar.

"I hear that you have been working on an aerial torpedo." ventured Craig. "Have you a model of it?"

"Not now," Lynar replied, showing no concern at the question. "I sent it down to Washington to the War Department, and I am expecting to hear from them any day now. I could hardly get my model off fast enough," he went on, in a somewhat surly tone. "Why, do you know, while it was here, I am sure that attempts were made to steal the idea from me? No one can do that now. I have my papers, and if the government accepts the invention, it will make me famous."

Though he was talking freely, I noted that he was telling us very little. All the time, he showed a secret hostility to Kennedy, an attitude that seemed to say, "Who are you—another spy?" That alone was sufficient to arouse my suspicions.

We parted from Lynar, mutually suspicious, and Kennedy announced that his next objective was a visit to the shipbuilding plant itself. Under ordinary circumstances, it could not have been accomplished, so close was the guard. But with Dillard, of course, there was no trouble. A high stockade had been erected about the plant, and it was patrolled by sentries day and night. Past them Dillard took us, first making arrangements so that we might come and go freely.

As we entered the gate of the stockade, Dillard led the way, and we soon found ourselves in the huge pattern-room, where they laid out the various parts. There were some ribs being heated, pegged out on the stone floor, pulled out, and bent to shape. Dillard gradually worked his way to the other side, where a young man was directing several workmen.

"Mr. Archer," he introduced.

Archer was an alert, active fellow, a graduate of a famous technical school. There was a sort of brusqueness about him which showed that he resented interference from an outsider.

"Is there anything new?" queried Dillard.

"New—about what?" returned Archer, knowing perfectly well to what the lieutenant referred.

"About the explosions," explained Dillard, preserving his temper and poise admirably. "No clue yet?"

"Nothing."

It was more than fancy that there was friction between the two. At first, I thought that it might be the natural rivalry between the employee of a big shipbuilding corporation and the government officer who had been set to supervise him. But, on second thought, there flashed before me the picture of Laurel Rogers, of Archer's reputed feelings toward her, and of her evident interest in Dillard. Perhaps it was merely jealousy that I saw. Yet there might be something even deeper than trade rivalry or jealousy. Was Archer what he purported to be?


WE left the pattern-room and went out into the yards. It was a scene of activity never to be forgotten. For they were working under high pressure there. Great traveling cranes were carrying heavy pieces overhead. Little narrow- and regular wide-gauge railways were pulling and hauling everywhere. A line of ship's hulls, ten of them, stretched before us, on the sides and overhead a network of steel construction, while at the far end lay the two that had been wrecked. We had not gone far before we came upon the man whom Dillard was seeking for us to meet-Rogers. I should have recognized him anywhere as the brother of Laurel. Unlike Archer, he did not seem to show any desire to avoid talking to us.

"We met your sister on the way here," remarked Dillard casually, while both Kennedy and I seized the opportunity to watch whether Rogers betrayed that she was in his confidence.

"Indeed?" he replied. "I don't see very much of Laurel now. You see, when I get through here, it is pretty late, and I'm all in. Besides, she has so many friends that I can leave her entertainment to them—Archer, for instance."

We turned. The engineer had evidently found some excuse for following us out into the yards and had approached. His interest now was quite in contrast with his previous attitude. Evidently he was not going to let Dillard get out of his sight, especially when it came to talking with Laurel's brother. Rogers, however, did not notice it, but Kennedy did, and seized the opportunity.

"I want to look over those explosions," he said.

Dillard glanced about inquiringly, but no one demurred. Accompanied by Archer and Rogers, Kennedy, Dillard, and myself went along the line of ships toward the far end where lay Number One and Number Two, as each was designated merely by a numeral. They had been wrecked before either of them had even touched the water.

As we climbed over the wreckage, I glanced about and saw that, over the stockade. Lynar's garage was fairly close. It would not have been impossible that the attack might have come from that direction. Meanwhile. Kennedy was examining the wrecks carefully.

"Quite evidently they have been the object of some organized attempt," he remarked, as he completed his examination. "This was no accident, no coincidence."

My mind still on Lynar and his invention, I wondered whether there was, in fact, a mighty terror that lurked in the very air overhead, from which nothing could guard the rest of the big brood of ships.

"I'm going to catch that dynamiter if I have to stand over the ships myself all night," asserted Dillard vehemently, as we were taking leave of Archer and Rogers at the gate. Alone with us again, Dillard excused himself, for his trip into the city and time with us had allowed many pressing matters to accumulate.

"There seems to be nothing else for us to do but to take up our residence in this little community and study the case," decided Craig.


THE rest of the afternoon, accordingly, was consumed in finding a place in which we could operate most easily, and we finally decided on a little boarding-house across the street from Lynar's garage. There we established ourselves and, as it was nearing dinner-time, Kennedy suggested that we eat at a rather famous road-house not far up the same street.

The food was good, and our case was a difficult one to take hold of, and thus it happened that our discussion of it prolonged itself much past the dinner-hour and until twilight. We were sitting in a corner of the wide, screened porch, when the humming of an engine, cut-out open, made us turn toward the road. A girl driving a car flashed past.

"Laurel Rogers!" Kennedy exclaimed.

What she could have been in such a hurry about, neither of us had any idea. We paid our check and hurried out, back in the direction of the town, toward which she was going.

It was still early in the evening as we came to our boarding-house.

"Look!" indicated Kennedy, pointing across at the garage.

There was no light over there. The front door of the garage was closed. We walked across to it. No one was there.

Just then, a boy happened along.

"Where is Mr. Lynar?" asked Craig.

"I don't know, sir." he replied. "I saw him go away, and I heard him tell a woman in a car that he was going away on business."

"Who was she?"

"I don't know, sir—a pretty girl."

There was nothing more that he knew. But what we had learned was an astounding bit of news. Viva was gone. Now Nicholas Lynar had disappeared, too. Where had he gone? Had he fled? Was he in hiding? If so, why?

Full of the news, we hastened round to the hotel where Dillard put up. He was not there, and at once we recalled his plan to watch at the yards himself. Without a doubt, there was where he was.

As Kennedy stood at the hotel desk, considering, his eye fell on a small, dainty envelope that had been left in the letter-box for Dillard. Craig looked at it.

"Hm," he mused. A disguised flourish on the superscription. Underneath, written and scored, the words: "Very Important."

For a moment he paused, while the clerk pored over his ledger, and I knew Kennedy was trying to justify his impulse. Then, without further hesitation, he reached over, took the note, and tore open the envelop. His exclamation startled me, and I bent over and read.


Don't go to the yards to-night.


There was no signature. Craig studied the writing carefully.

"A woman's hand," he muttered.

Was it from Laurel Rogers? If so, what was it she knew? Had it something to do with the disappearance of Lynar? This must have taken place about the time the note was sent. I recalled her dash past the road-house.


AT any rate, if there were anything in the warning, there was no time to lose. We hurried to the street. Not a car that we could call on was in sight. Kennedy strode, almost on a run, toward the yards. Was Dillard there? Without a doubt, he was doing just as he said.

Past the sentry we swung, giving the password Dillard had taught us. Through the gate we went and into the yard, where the grim, shadowy buildings blocked our search. Precious minutes were passing as we tried to locate the lieutenant. Anything might happen.

"Dillard!" snouted Kennedy. "Dillard!"

There was no answer. All was darkness.

In desperation. Kennedy drew his pistol and fired aimlessly in the air. Down the line of ships, a moment later, I could see an indistinct figure dart out from the shadows, coming toward us. What if it were not Dillard?

Even as the figure hurried along, there came a mighty, deep-throated rumble. It seemed as if one of the cargo-ships were taken up bodily and dropped back into its cradle, broken. The figure coming toward us was hurled violently to the ground. The air, for the moment, was full of flying débris. That we escaped being hit by it was little short of a miracle.

Then, as the crash of the explosion subsided, outside, all about, we could hear shouts of people, see guards running.

"Number Three!" exclaimed Kennedy, starting forward.

On we stumbled until we came up to a huddled figure on the ground. It was Dillard, prostrate, badly scratched, but safe.

As he saw us, he seemed to realize in an instant just what had happened. Kennedy had saved his life. But, to Dillard, that was nothing compared to the chance that there might be some clue to the attack if we got there soon enough.

"Come on!" he cried, struggling to his feet. "I heard your shot—thought there was some attack in that direction. Let us see what we can find!"

Together we dashed forward. There lay the ship. The effect of the explosion was precisely similar to that of the others. In the very center of the hulk was a huge, crater-like hole. Her back-bone had been literally snapped. Had it been an aerial torpedo? Was there truth in the reports of Lynar's invention and its wonderful power of penetration and explosive force?

By this time, search-lights were playing on the wreck and in the air. Sweep as they might, those fingers of light could disclose nothing. There seemed to be not a thing that we could discover which we had not already observed on the other two wrecks.

Dillard was nearly crazy when we left him some hours later, for the affair was becoming more and more serious every moment.

"Lynar gone—another explosion," considered Kennedy, as we paced along toward our lodgings. "I feel that we ought to watch that garage. Fortunately, we've taken this place near it. We must do something to stop these explosions. They seem to come, as Dillard says, every other day. Therefore, we must do the trick to-morrow. Walter, I'm going back to the laboratory. You go to the house and watch until I return."

At our window I stood guard, but not a thing suspicious happened while Kennedy made the trip to the city and back again. It was very late when he returned, bearing a small package, and, as there was no use doing any more that night, we turned in.

Early, however, Kennedy was about and, with great precautions against being observed, went into the cellar of our boarding-house. There on the floor he set up a peculiar-looking instrument and for some hours he seemed to be listening.


THE day itself proved to be quite uneventful, and I was persuaded that it was only at night that the attacker, whoever he might be, worked. As the day wore on, there was still no trace of Lynar.

Once we saw Dillard long enough to have him tell us that Laurel Rogers was making frequent inquiries whether there was any clue to Viva. I gathered that it was really her interest in Dillard himself that prompted the inquiries.

"I must see Laurel," concluded Kennedy, who was impatiently waiting for nightfall again.

Directed by Dillard, we found her in the home that she had rented for herself and her brother. As we entered, I saw that she was frightfully nervous.

"Have you found anything yet?" she asked anxiously.

"Only this," returned Kennedy, slowly unfolding the note he had purloined.

She affected not to recognize it, but Kennedy would not be so easily put off.

"Tell me," he demanded, facing her, "did you write that?"

For a moment, she flashed defiance at him.

"Were you the girl last seen with Nicholas Lynar?" I broke in impulsively.

"Yes," she said, in a quiet tone, meeting our eyes firmly; "I wrote it. As for Mr. Lynar—am I his guardian?"

"Why did you write it," persisted Craig. "What did you know?"

"Nothing—I just suspected something!" she cried. "There—that is all I will say."

What was the struggle through which Laurel was going? Perhaps, either her brother or Archer had told her of Dillard's purpose to watch the yards himself the night before. But I was convinced now that she knew more, that she was shielding some one.

I could make nothing of the strange moods and actions of Laurel Rogers. About one thing, however, I was certain—her interest in Lieutenant Dillard. But was it genuine? I recalled Archer's jealousy.

It was useless to question Laurel any more. It would only antagonize her, and perhaps we might get what we wanted by some other means. There seemed to be nothing to do but to return to our point of observation and take up the search again, with the help of the strange instrument on which Kennedy evidently counted so much.


AS night approached, I could see that Kennedy's attention was increasing rather than relaxing. Still, there was nothing new to report, even after Dillard joined us in our vigil as twilight deepened. The hours passed, now and then broken by a speculation from either Dillard or myself, though Kennedy ventured nothing except a hint that, if nothing developed that night, he would plan out an entire new campaign the next day.

We sat in the flickering light of an oil-lamp in the musty cellar, each engrossed in his own theory. An occasional restless intake of breath from Dillard spoke of his thoughts of Viva. Suddenly Kennedy leaned forward tensely, his face grave.

"Walter," he exclaimed in a moment, "listen in this thing!"

I took the two pieces from him and stuck them into my own ears as I had seen him do. There was certainly a queer noise, a sort of rumble, which came and went, as though some one, far off, were striking rhythmical blows.

I handed the ear-pieces to Dillard, looking at Craig inquiringly.

"It's a stethoscope of a new kind," he explained hastily. "They are used abroad now a great deal in the trenches to discover the operations of enemy sappers and miners."

"Then—these noises—are in the earth?"

"Exactly!" he replied excitedly. "I have been picking up automobiles and passing trolley-cars, but just now, when it is quieter, there comes this thing. I wanted to be sure that you could hear it as plainly as I did. Come—let us get into that garage across the street. We must trace the noises quickly."

As we hurried out and over the road, a gray car flashed out of the shadows some hundred or two feet below us, stopped, and Laurel Rogers jumped out. It was quite apparent that she had been watching our house.

"W-what's the matter?" she stammered breathlessly, as we approached the garage.

"Keep her back," whispered Kennedy to me, not pausing to explain his reason. "If we do anything, it must be done quickly—and quietly."

On he pressed with Dillard. There was no question of waiting for a search-warrant. Together they broke through the door of the garage. Through the building Kennedy hurried, switching on the light, and into the little cellar that he had examined before. I followed, doing my best to keep Laurel in the background. She was pale and trembling, and seemed not to realize that at times she was leaning rather heavily on my arm for support.

At the foot of the steps, Kennedy paused and flashed his light. Not a cobweb had been disturbed, apparently. He looked about, puzzled.

"I can't be wrong," he muttered, still gazing around.

From his breast-pocket he drew forth again the little stethoscope. Carefully he applied it to the ground, listening intently. By the mere look on his face, I could see that he had heard the same thing that we had listened to across the street. He handed the thing to me. The noises I had already heard were now plainer than ever. What could it mean? Clearly there was nothing here. Suddenly Kennedy turned and mounted the steps. We followed. He did not pause in the garage, nor did he go toward the shop in the rear. Instead, he forced open a door that led into the other empty wing of the house, which we had investigated the first time we were there. Back and forth over the ruined walls, with their plaster and paper hanging from the lath, he played his searchlight.

He paused. As he moved the light up and down, he disclosed a long, vertical gap in the woodwork. What was it?

Kennedy pressed hard on a warped panel. To our utter amazement, it yielded. It was a door!

He pushed it back. Nothing but blackness greeted us—blackness with a vile, heavy effluvium as of sewer-gas. What was it that lay beyond this door of dread? What did it portend for Viva?

Dillard muttered huskily and pressed forward, but Kennedy blocked the way, not moving an inch. If there was danger, he would not have been himself if he had refused to face it first.

About to enter, he had turned to me, and I caught the shadow of a signal to keep Laurel quiet.

Into the black hole Kennedy disappeared, Dillard hard after him. Before I knew it, Laurel Rogers had darted forward, and I had just time to seize her wrist before she reached the strange door. My pistol was already in my hand, in case Craig and Dillard needed it.

"Not a word!" I threatened.

"Yes—yes—I promise!" she cried. "Only let me go with you."

Together we followed them. At the foot of a flight of ladder-like stairs, we came upon Kennedy and Dillard flashing the electric bull's-eye about. We looked in amazement. Under the greater part of the house there was a false cellar. As we glanced about, we could see that it was nearly filled with dirt and rocks.

Not far from us came a faint cry—a moan, weird, ghostly.

Dillard groped toward it. There was a rough door on a sort of bin—padlocked on the outside. He tore off the lock, staples and all.

"My God!" he cried, as we pressed forward.

Over his shoulder, as he bent down, I saw dimly on a pile of sacking a figure. It moved. Weak, pale, but alive—it was Viva Gordon!

Tenderly Dillard bent over her and lifted her in his arms.

"Tell me," he murmured; "how did you get here?"

"I came—to get my car—thought I saw some one enter the vacant part—next door," she muttered weakly, as she rested her head on his shoulder. "The explosion—the day before—I thought it might be a clue—He pulled me down here—oh, how I have waited and called for you—in this dungeon. He is—in there—now!"

I turned in the direction Viva pointed. Laurel broke forward and clasped the hand that pointed.

"Viva," she cried, "no—for God's sake, no—not here—now!"

Kennedy was already at the other end of the cellar. As I came up with him, he shoved the flash-light into my hands. A moment later, he wormed his way into a little opening in the very foundation of the house.

I peered after him. There was a passageway. How far out underground it extended, we could only guess. But, from my sense of direction, I calculated that it must extend toward the shipyard. It was a tunnel, perhaps with spurs that ran down under each ship as the main tunnel was extended.

In the dark dankness of the passageway with its low timbered roof. I could hear sounds, muffled, sinister. Some one was really in there. Through the opening, scarcely larger than enough to admit a man, I prepared to crawl after Kennedy.

At that moment, I heard some one descending the ladder steps from above. I did not look to see who it might be. Dillard must protect our rear. I was intent only on giving Kennedy any aid that he might need in his close quarters.

There was no cause to worry about Craig. Almost before I knew it, I realized that Kennedy was dragging some one bodily out of the black hole toward the light. I was rather in the way than a help.

I backed out as I heard Kennedy pant,

"Walter—a light!"

From the floor where I had dropped it, I seized the flash-light, and, as I did so, turning it through a half-arc toward the mouth of the cavern, its rays fell on the face of Nicholas Lynar, standing in surprise at the foot of the stairs.

"Where did you come from?" I demanded in surprise.

"My invention—accepted by the government—yesterday!" he cried excitedly. "I've just come from Washington. What's this?"

Kennedy was backing, still fighting furiously to hold some one in the mouth of the cavern. I flashed the bull's-eye now full on the face of a man whom he had pinioned to the floor.

Laurel Rogers broke forward with a scream and threw herself on the floor beside the prostrate figure of the brother she had been trying to shield, traitor to his country and its allies.


THE END


Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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