vanished.
Benson went back, pale eyes flaming like ice under an arctic sun. He found the butler.
The man was bound hand and foot with strange bonds. They were linen, so old as to be dark brown, but still as strong as rope.
Also, The Avenger picked up the knife that one had dropped.
The knife, almost as heavy as a butcher-knife, had a solid metal handle. And the blade of the massive dagger was copper!
Benson took the knife to the front door. There was an iron grille over plate glass there. He drew the copper blade heavily over one of the iron bars.
A groove appeared in the iron, and the copper of the blade was dulled only a little. He bent the blade in his steel-strong fingers. It doubled, then snapped back straight again when the pressure was released.
The knife blade might be of copper but it was as hard and tough as tempered steel. Copper tempered till it was a match for steel! No one knows how to temper copper like that, now. Only one race has ever possessed the secret.
That was the ancient Egyptians!
CHAPTER VII
“Doctor, Lawyer—”
The loss of the Taros amulets was still a secret. The police, papers and public hadn’t the faintest idea the priceless relics were gone.
Caine didn’t want even the museum directors to know—in fact, above all, they must not know. So that when Benson went to see the three that night, he was put to it to ask any questions and still not give the loss away.
He did it by feigning anxiety that the relics might be stolen in the near future—instead of having already been taken.
“Mr. Caine has decided to keep the amulets and the ring in his home for a few days,” he said evenly to Evans, first of the three directors he called on. “It is understandable. Enthusiastic as he is about such things, he probably studies them by the hour—gets a positive intoxication from their temporary possession. Yet it may not be a very wise thing to do.”
Short, fat Evans shrugged his shoulders.
“Gunther’s a privileged person,” he said. “If he wants to do that, I guess it’s all right. Irregular, but O.K.”
“He’s entirely responsible?” said Benson.
Evans laughed.
“Gunther Caine has between two and three million dollars, all in government bonds. He’s curator of Braintree because he loves the work, not because he needs it. I’ll say he’s a responsible citizen!”
“His servants?”
“They’ll never get near the amulets. Gunther’s no fool.”
“His son,” observed Benson, “is not quite the sort of boy you’d expect from such a father.”
“Why, how do you mean?” said Evans.
“For one thing, his father’s work evidently leaves him cold. As I remember, he was so bored with the talk of the Taros relics that he left the library in the middle of the discussion last night.”
“He did go out, didn’t he?” murmured Evans, in discreet evasion.
Benson kept it up. The little fat man was not to be drawn out about Harold Caine.
Spencer, tall and chubby, wasn’t so evasive. His kewpie-doll face became as severe as it could when Benson mentioned Harold Caine.
“He’s a hairbrained kid,” he said primly. “Wild as they come. Always overdrawn on the generous allowance his father gives him. A great worry to Gunther. But he’s fundamentally all right, Mr. Benson,” he added quickly.
“You say you are worried about the safety of the relics. You can dismiss him from your mind as a possible source of trouble.”
Moen, heavy-set, muscular ex-football halfback, was not to be drawn out, either.
“Gunther Caine is more than the curator of Braintree Museum. He is the museum. We have about a million dollars a year to spend on expeditions and purchases. Gunther handles every cent of it, trusted blind. If he wants to keep the Taros relics a few days and gloat over them, it’s all right with us directors.”
But about the son he only said, indifferently.
“He’s a little spoiled, I guess. And Gunther has had to get him out of several jams. But he’s
Benson went back, pale eyes flaming like ice under an arctic sun. He found the butler.
The man was bound hand and foot with strange bonds. They were linen, so old as to be dark brown, but still as strong as rope.
Also, The Avenger picked up the knife that one had dropped.
The knife, almost as heavy as a butcher-knife, had a solid metal handle. And the blade of the massive dagger was copper!
Benson took the knife to the front door. There was an iron grille over plate glass there. He drew the copper blade heavily over one of the iron bars.
A groove appeared in the iron, and the copper of the blade was dulled only a little. He bent the blade in his steel-strong fingers. It doubled, then snapped back straight again when the pressure was released.
The knife blade might be of copper but it was as hard and tough as tempered steel. Copper tempered till it was a match for steel! No one knows how to temper copper like that, now. Only one race has ever possessed the secret.
That was the ancient Egyptians!
CHAPTER VII
“Doctor, Lawyer—”
The loss of the Taros amulets was still a secret. The police, papers and public hadn’t the faintest idea the priceless relics were gone.
Caine didn’t want even the museum directors to know—in fact, above all, they must not know. So that when Benson went to see the three that night, he was put to it to ask any questions and still not give the loss away.
He did it by feigning anxiety that the relics might be stolen in the near future—instead of having already been taken.
“Mr. Caine has decided to keep the amulets and the ring in his home for a few days,” he said evenly to Evans, first of the three directors he called on. “It is understandable. Enthusiastic as he is about such things, he probably studies them by the hour—gets a positive intoxication from their temporary possession. Yet it may not be a very wise thing to do.”
Short, fat Evans shrugged his shoulders.
“Gunther’s a privileged person,” he said. “If he wants to do that, I guess it’s all right. Irregular, but O.K.”
“He’s entirely responsible?” said Benson.
Evans laughed.
“Gunther Caine has between two and three million dollars, all in government bonds. He’s curator of Braintree because he loves the work, not because he needs it. I’ll say he’s a responsible citizen!”
“His servants?”
“They’ll never get near the amulets. Gunther’s no fool.”
“His son,” observed Benson, “is not quite the sort of boy you’d expect from such a father.”
“Why, how do you mean?” said Evans.
“For one thing, his father’s work evidently leaves him cold. As I remember, he was so bored with the talk of the Taros relics that he left the library in the middle of the discussion last night.”
“He did go out, didn’t he?” murmured Evans, in discreet evasion.
Benson kept it up. The little fat man was not to be drawn out about Harold Caine.
Spencer, tall and chubby, wasn’t so evasive. His kewpie-doll face became as severe as it could when Benson mentioned Harold Caine.
“He’s a hairbrained kid,” he said primly. “Wild as they come. Always overdrawn on the generous allowance his father gives him. A great worry to Gunther. But he’s fundamentally all right, Mr. Benson,” he added quickly.
“You say you are worried about the safety of the relics. You can dismiss him from your mind as a possible source of trouble.”
Moen, heavy-set, muscular ex-football halfback, was not to be drawn out, either.
“Gunther Caine is more than the curator of Braintree Museum. He is the museum. We have about a million dollars a year to spend on expeditions and purchases. Gunther handles every cent of it, trusted blind. If he wants to keep the Taros relics a few days and gloat over them, it’s all right with us directors.”
But about the son he only said, indifferently.
“He’s a little spoiled, I guess. And Gunther has had to get him out of several jams. But he’s
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