outside.
“I’m getting jumpy,” Cole reproved himself.
After all, this was just an ordinary mansion, housing ordinary people. It didn’t shelter a gang of cutthroats, not here on respectable Long Island.
He felt better after he had reached the big front door with no hint of anyone else on the grounds. He pressed the bell and felt still better when the door was opened. Also, he felt a pleasant tingle of visual satisfaction.
For the door was opened by a girl that any man would look at twice—or five times if possible—on the street.
She was tall, slim but full-curved, with chestnut-brown hair that looked warm enough to kindle a fire, and with light-brown eyes.
She looked pleasant, too. “Yes?” she said. “What is it you want?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Marsden, please,” Cole told her. He had no hat to take off because he always went bareheaded. But there was a suggestion of a doffed hat in his chivalrous tone. He found himself wishing that he could rescue this girl from some kind of trouble.
“What do you wish to speak to him about?” The girl smiled. “I am Jessica, Mr. Marsden’s daughter. You could confide in me.”
“I would love to confide almost anything in you,” Cole said. “But this particular matter must be confided to your father. If you don’t mind—”
“Just step in here,” said the girl, smiling. “You can wait in the front hall while I see if he can see you.”
Cole went in. Smiling, the girl shut the door. Cole heard the clack of a heavy automatic bolt.
“That’s a beautiful Corot,” said Cole, staring at a famous picture on the wall. “Is it an original—”
He stopped. He still stared at the picture but, now, without seeing it. He didn’t move a finger.
This was because he knew that the thing pressing coldly against the back of his neck was a gun!
“Don’t try anything,” said the smiling girl it had been such a pleasure to meet, “or I’ll blow your head right off.”
To say that Cole was amazed at the pressure of that gun in his neck would have been a magnificent understatement. He was not only amazed, he was completely burned to a crisp. Here he had come to this place in the kindliest spirit, to see if anything had happened to Marsden and to offer his help if something had occurred, and he was met with the point of a gun.
“All right,” he snapped angrily, “what am I supposed to do now?”
“You’re supposed to keep a civil tongue in your head, for one thing,” Jessica Marsden snapped back. That reddish-brown hair indicated a temper.
“Would you kindly tell me, please,” Cole retorted sarcastically, “what is the big idea, if you don’t mind?”
“The idea is that Dad and I are sick of all this. Your gang has tried to break in here; they have tried to bribe our servants to let them in, till finally we had to dismiss the servants. They have tried to kidnap me and kidnap Dad. We’re not going to stand it any more.”
Cole instantly lost his anger, and became intensely alert. So something hot was going on here at the Marsden home! For the thousandth time, Cole marveled at the way The Avenger could smell out trouble.
He considered telling who he was and asking particulars. Then he had the second thought that if he didn’t identify himself, if he let the girl keep on thinking he was a crook, he might learn more from her.
Sober thought might have hinted that this was a foolish tiling to do, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
“I’m not part of any gang,” he protested. But he managed to look as guilty as a captured pickpocket as he said it.
“Oh, no?” Jessica could be sarcastic, too. Her slim right hand went lightly over Cole’s shoulders and sides. She came up with a pet weapon of his—a compressed air gun that would shoot a .22 pellet in which was some anaesthetic of MacMurdie’s invention. It could snap one of the pellets accurately up to eighty feet, there to crash the glass globule and release a gas that put a
“I’m getting jumpy,” Cole reproved himself.
After all, this was just an ordinary mansion, housing ordinary people. It didn’t shelter a gang of cutthroats, not here on respectable Long Island.
He felt better after he had reached the big front door with no hint of anyone else on the grounds. He pressed the bell and felt still better when the door was opened. Also, he felt a pleasant tingle of visual satisfaction.
For the door was opened by a girl that any man would look at twice—or five times if possible—on the street.
She was tall, slim but full-curved, with chestnut-brown hair that looked warm enough to kindle a fire, and with light-brown eyes.
She looked pleasant, too. “Yes?” she said. “What is it you want?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Marsden, please,” Cole told her. He had no hat to take off because he always went bareheaded. But there was a suggestion of a doffed hat in his chivalrous tone. He found himself wishing that he could rescue this girl from some kind of trouble.
“What do you wish to speak to him about?” The girl smiled. “I am Jessica, Mr. Marsden’s daughter. You could confide in me.”
“I would love to confide almost anything in you,” Cole said. “But this particular matter must be confided to your father. If you don’t mind—”
“Just step in here,” said the girl, smiling. “You can wait in the front hall while I see if he can see you.”
Cole went in. Smiling, the girl shut the door. Cole heard the clack of a heavy automatic bolt.
“That’s a beautiful Corot,” said Cole, staring at a famous picture on the wall. “Is it an original—”
He stopped. He still stared at the picture but, now, without seeing it. He didn’t move a finger.
This was because he knew that the thing pressing coldly against the back of his neck was a gun!
“Don’t try anything,” said the smiling girl it had been such a pleasure to meet, “or I’ll blow your head right off.”
To say that Cole was amazed at the pressure of that gun in his neck would have been a magnificent understatement. He was not only amazed, he was completely burned to a crisp. Here he had come to this place in the kindliest spirit, to see if anything had happened to Marsden and to offer his help if something had occurred, and he was met with the point of a gun.
“All right,” he snapped angrily, “what am I supposed to do now?”
“You’re supposed to keep a civil tongue in your head, for one thing,” Jessica Marsden snapped back. That reddish-brown hair indicated a temper.
“Would you kindly tell me, please,” Cole retorted sarcastically, “what is the big idea, if you don’t mind?”
“The idea is that Dad and I are sick of all this. Your gang has tried to break in here; they have tried to bribe our servants to let them in, till finally we had to dismiss the servants. They have tried to kidnap me and kidnap Dad. We’re not going to stand it any more.”
Cole instantly lost his anger, and became intensely alert. So something hot was going on here at the Marsden home! For the thousandth time, Cole marveled at the way The Avenger could smell out trouble.
He considered telling who he was and asking particulars. Then he had the second thought that if he didn’t identify himself, if he let the girl keep on thinking he was a crook, he might learn more from her.
Sober thought might have hinted that this was a foolish tiling to do, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
“I’m not part of any gang,” he protested. But he managed to look as guilty as a captured pickpocket as he said it.
“Oh, no?” Jessica could be sarcastic, too. Her slim right hand went lightly over Cole’s shoulders and sides. She came up with a pet weapon of his—a compressed air gun that would shoot a .22 pellet in which was some anaesthetic of MacMurdie’s invention. It could snap one of the pellets accurately up to eighty feet, there to crash the glass globule and release a gas that put a
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