eyes open. She might be able to grab his leg and do more damage if he tried it.
With the bony man was the one with the cut hands.
“She’s a tiger,” this second man snarled. “I’d like to—”
“Let her alone,” growled the bony one. “Shell get hers later. Hellcat! It’s lucky you came back from the car instead of driving out here with Joey and that front-office dope. She’d have gotten away from me.”
The two went out. And Nellie saw someone who, before, had been hidden by their bodies.
The someone was a pretty girl with brown eyes and hair, and with blood on her forehead.
“Who are you?” asked Nellie, rubbing her throat.
“I’m the front-office dope,” replied the girl. “The front office being that of the eminent Dr. Fram. The dope being me—for not realizing that someone crooked was going on. And you?”
“Looking through Fram’s office to see what I could see,” said Nellie huskily. “I got something, too.”
She reached into her dress, smiling bleakly.
“I hit the bony man a couple in the throat. With the first smack, while he was too busy feeling his Adam’s apple to feel me going into his pockets, I got this from him.”
She took out a crumpled ball of paper and opened it.
“Why, that’s a page from my list of routine calls of patients to Dr. Fram,” said Nan Stanton. “I wonder why they took that?”
“I wonder,” said Nellie. “But they did; so it must be important.”
She looked through it, searching for the name of any of the senators Benson had listed. There was no such name.
There was one name on the list, however, important enough to draw her eyes.
“Tetlow Adams!” she said. “So he’s a client of Fram’s. Don’t tell me he needs a psychiatrist!”
“No,” said Nan. “But it seems that his son does. Anyhow, that’s what he said he came to Dr. Fram about. His nineteen-year-old son.”
Nellie put the paper back in her dress, wondering if it could have any significance for The Avenger. She decided, on looking around, that she would probably never live to find out.
She and Nan were in an underground room with only one heavy door breaking its concrete expanse. Now and then she heard a rumble overhead, and she surmised that they were in the basement of a garage.
She wondered if there were any hearses upstairs, handy, among the other vehicles.
CHAPTER VIII
To the Asylum
Senator Burnside had lived with horror in his heart for days. It wasn’t a vague horror. It was a very precise one. It was a horror of padded cells and strait jackets, asylums and high gates closing behind him and shutting off the outside world forever.
He knew exactly what he was afraid of. So that, almost at the sound of the men’s voices, he realized at once what was going on.
Burnside was in the living room of his home—that living room in which he had seen something it was impossible for any man to see because it was impossible for it really to have been there: a little bright-red man leading a green, smiling dog on a leash made out of flowers.
The voice sounded at the front door, heavy, arrogant, callously indifferent.
“Is Senator Burnside in?”
The Senator heard his servant answer to the effect that he was in. And Burnside started to get out of the living room.
If he went out the regular door, it would land him in the hall in plain sight of the street door. So he didn’t try to get out that way. He stole toward the dining-room door.
Then he heard steps as somebody, his servant he thought, came to cut that doorway off. So he jumped like a frightened rabbit toward the window.
What he saw out there in the street confirmed his worst fears. There was a sort of ambulance out there, which had grating over the windows. It looked like a cage in which dangerous animals might be borne off.
Or dangerous men. Madmen!
Burnside was tugging at the window, but it wouldn’t go up. Then he heard someone come into the room behind him. He turned with what dignity he could muster.
With the bony man was the one with the cut hands.
“She’s a tiger,” this second man snarled. “I’d like to—”
“Let her alone,” growled the bony one. “Shell get hers later. Hellcat! It’s lucky you came back from the car instead of driving out here with Joey and that front-office dope. She’d have gotten away from me.”
The two went out. And Nellie saw someone who, before, had been hidden by their bodies.
The someone was a pretty girl with brown eyes and hair, and with blood on her forehead.
“Who are you?” asked Nellie, rubbing her throat.
“I’m the front-office dope,” replied the girl. “The front office being that of the eminent Dr. Fram. The dope being me—for not realizing that someone crooked was going on. And you?”
“Looking through Fram’s office to see what I could see,” said Nellie huskily. “I got something, too.”
She reached into her dress, smiling bleakly.
“I hit the bony man a couple in the throat. With the first smack, while he was too busy feeling his Adam’s apple to feel me going into his pockets, I got this from him.”
She took out a crumpled ball of paper and opened it.
“Why, that’s a page from my list of routine calls of patients to Dr. Fram,” said Nan Stanton. “I wonder why they took that?”
“I wonder,” said Nellie. “But they did; so it must be important.”
She looked through it, searching for the name of any of the senators Benson had listed. There was no such name.
There was one name on the list, however, important enough to draw her eyes.
“Tetlow Adams!” she said. “So he’s a client of Fram’s. Don’t tell me he needs a psychiatrist!”
“No,” said Nan. “But it seems that his son does. Anyhow, that’s what he said he came to Dr. Fram about. His nineteen-year-old son.”
Nellie put the paper back in her dress, wondering if it could have any significance for The Avenger. She decided, on looking around, that she would probably never live to find out.
She and Nan were in an underground room with only one heavy door breaking its concrete expanse. Now and then she heard a rumble overhead, and she surmised that they were in the basement of a garage.
She wondered if there were any hearses upstairs, handy, among the other vehicles.
CHAPTER VIII
To the Asylum
Senator Burnside had lived with horror in his heart for days. It wasn’t a vague horror. It was a very precise one. It was a horror of padded cells and strait jackets, asylums and high gates closing behind him and shutting off the outside world forever.
He knew exactly what he was afraid of. So that, almost at the sound of the men’s voices, he realized at once what was going on.
Burnside was in the living room of his home—that living room in which he had seen something it was impossible for any man to see because it was impossible for it really to have been there: a little bright-red man leading a green, smiling dog on a leash made out of flowers.
The voice sounded at the front door, heavy, arrogant, callously indifferent.
“Is Senator Burnside in?”
The Senator heard his servant answer to the effect that he was in. And Burnside started to get out of the living room.
If he went out the regular door, it would land him in the hall in plain sight of the street door. So he didn’t try to get out that way. He stole toward the dining-room door.
Then he heard steps as somebody, his servant he thought, came to cut that doorway off. So he jumped like a frightened rabbit toward the window.
What he saw out there in the street confirmed his worst fears. There was a sort of ambulance out there, which had grating over the windows. It looked like a cage in which dangerous animals might be borne off.
Or dangerous men. Madmen!
Burnside was tugging at the window, but it wouldn’t go up. Then he heard someone come into the room behind him. He turned with what dignity he could muster.
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