head was twisted sideways. He was breathing through the lapel. Probably the fabric had been chemically treated to counteract whatever fumes were making her so sleepy.
She saw the lake, at the street end ahead. And then she slumped against the side of the car with her sleek gold hair against the window.
But Nellie Gray wasn’t quite out.
The rear windows of the sedan were of the type which slide backward an inch, with a turn of the handle, and then lower.
Her one touch at the window handle had slid the glass back a quarter of an inch or so. And when she slumped, she managed to do so in a manner that brought her pert nose to this crack.
So she was not quite unconscious when the car stopped at a small, rickety dock, but she might as well have been, for the fumes had made her too weak to put up a fight.
At the dock there was a motor cruiser almost large enough to be called a yacht. Two men were on deck. They grinned at Carlisle as he opened the car door. They were hard-looking customers, but in Carlisle’s smooth face was now a look harder even than theirs.
“Got her, huh?” said one of the men as Carlisle picked Nellie up and carried her to the cruiser. The speaker caught the girl rough by the arms and dragged her over the rail and aboard. “Good going! Now we’ve got ’em all in a bag.”
Carlisle went back to the sedan.
“See you at the ferry,” he said. “So long.”
The sedan moved off and the boat moved out. It was getting along toward dusk. One of the men lit the boat’s riding lights. The other stepped to where Nellie lay.
She was drawing in lungfuls of fresh air, and was snapping out of it rapidly. But not rapidly enough! She still hadn’t the strength to put up a battle.
The man picked her up like a sack of meal and took her below. She felt herself dropped into darkness. Forward, she heard the loud roar of the marine motor and knew she was very close to it. Under her, right next to her ear, it seemed, she heard the rush of water as the boat forced itself ahead at thirty miles an hour.
Over her, the last crack of light went out as a stout hatch was closed. She was held in the tiny hold of the cruiser, caught as securely as any prisoner behind bars in a penitentiary.
Carlisle’s demand for her to bring a chemical to Benson had been just natural enough for her to be caught off guard. And it looked as if she were going to pay bitterly for that.
CHAPTER VII
Death—Odds-On Favorite!
Fergus MacMurdie had a most peculiar trait. When everything was going smoothly, it was his dour Scotch nature to predict the most dreadful things that were sure to happen any minute. Always he looked on the gloomy side of life.
But when an emergency arose in which these seemed no conceivable way out, he grew almost cheerful, and predicted sure success.
On the work train, Smitty’s gigantic muscles were writhing and straining against his bonds as he stared out the window. Free, and with a good purchase for back and arms and shoulders, he might possibly have broken the rope. But in his cramped position a solid inch of good new hemp was a good deal too much, even for him.
“We’re sunk,” he said, looking out the window at the scenery flashing past. “Those guys said we’d hit seventy. My guess is we’re topping even that speed. And when we hit that sharp curve—”
“Whoosh, mon,” said Mac, straining at his own ropes, “we’ll come out of this. We’ve come out of worse.”
“You’re nothing but a disgusting Pollyanna,” snapped Smitty.
“And ye’re just an overgrown schoolboy who gives up at the first lick of teacher’s ruler on the back of yer hand,” burred Mac.
“Oh, I am, am I!” In his indignation, Smitty almost broke free.
Behind them the overstrained switch engine roared like a tortured bull, with its drive wheels turning so fast they were mere blurs. And Smitty thought of something else. Something adding no cheer whatever to the scene.
“Those two flatcars loaded with rails!”
She saw the lake, at the street end ahead. And then she slumped against the side of the car with her sleek gold hair against the window.
But Nellie Gray wasn’t quite out.
The rear windows of the sedan were of the type which slide backward an inch, with a turn of the handle, and then lower.
Her one touch at the window handle had slid the glass back a quarter of an inch or so. And when she slumped, she managed to do so in a manner that brought her pert nose to this crack.
So she was not quite unconscious when the car stopped at a small, rickety dock, but she might as well have been, for the fumes had made her too weak to put up a fight.
At the dock there was a motor cruiser almost large enough to be called a yacht. Two men were on deck. They grinned at Carlisle as he opened the car door. They were hard-looking customers, but in Carlisle’s smooth face was now a look harder even than theirs.
“Got her, huh?” said one of the men as Carlisle picked Nellie up and carried her to the cruiser. The speaker caught the girl rough by the arms and dragged her over the rail and aboard. “Good going! Now we’ve got ’em all in a bag.”
Carlisle went back to the sedan.
“See you at the ferry,” he said. “So long.”
The sedan moved off and the boat moved out. It was getting along toward dusk. One of the men lit the boat’s riding lights. The other stepped to where Nellie lay.
She was drawing in lungfuls of fresh air, and was snapping out of it rapidly. But not rapidly enough! She still hadn’t the strength to put up a battle.
The man picked her up like a sack of meal and took her below. She felt herself dropped into darkness. Forward, she heard the loud roar of the marine motor and knew she was very close to it. Under her, right next to her ear, it seemed, she heard the rush of water as the boat forced itself ahead at thirty miles an hour.
Over her, the last crack of light went out as a stout hatch was closed. She was held in the tiny hold of the cruiser, caught as securely as any prisoner behind bars in a penitentiary.
Carlisle’s demand for her to bring a chemical to Benson had been just natural enough for her to be caught off guard. And it looked as if she were going to pay bitterly for that.
CHAPTER VII
Death—Odds-On Favorite!
Fergus MacMurdie had a most peculiar trait. When everything was going smoothly, it was his dour Scotch nature to predict the most dreadful things that were sure to happen any minute. Always he looked on the gloomy side of life.
But when an emergency arose in which these seemed no conceivable way out, he grew almost cheerful, and predicted sure success.
On the work train, Smitty’s gigantic muscles were writhing and straining against his bonds as he stared out the window. Free, and with a good purchase for back and arms and shoulders, he might possibly have broken the rope. But in his cramped position a solid inch of good new hemp was a good deal too much, even for him.
“We’re sunk,” he said, looking out the window at the scenery flashing past. “Those guys said we’d hit seventy. My guess is we’re topping even that speed. And when we hit that sharp curve—”
“Whoosh, mon,” said Mac, straining at his own ropes, “we’ll come out of this. We’ve come out of worse.”
“You’re nothing but a disgusting Pollyanna,” snapped Smitty.
“And ye’re just an overgrown schoolboy who gives up at the first lick of teacher’s ruler on the back of yer hand,” burred Mac.
“Oh, I am, am I!” In his indignation, Smitty almost broke free.
Behind them the overstrained switch engine roared like a tortured bull, with its drive wheels turning so fast they were mere blurs. And Smitty thought of something else. Something adding no cheer whatever to the scene.
“Those two flatcars loaded with rails!”
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