The Witchmaster's Key by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

onto the street and began calling for a doctor. A man with a medical bag answered and offered his assistance. Joe dragged Frank into the witch exhibition, where he lay motionless.
    The doctor felt Frank’s pulse and raised his eyelids for an examination of the pupils. Then he took a syringe from his bag and gave the boy an injection.
    â€œYour brother has been drugged,” the doctorinformed Joe. “But he’ll be all right in a moment.”
    Frank began to breathe more easily. He regained consciousness, opened his eyes, and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and shaking his head.
    â€œWhat happened?” he asked groggily. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. I was having my palm read when the Empire State Building landed on me.”
    He struggled to his feet just as the curator of the witch collection arrived. He demanded to know what was going on in his establishment.
    Joe quickly explained about the palmist. “She disappeared,” he concluded ruefully.
    â€œWhat can you tell us about her?” Frank asked.
    â€œVery little,” the curator said. “She arrived only this morning. Said she could read palms and would amuse the visitors to the witch exhibition. I gave her permission. I should have checked her references before doing so.”
    â€œDo you know where she lives?” Joe asked.
    The curator shook his head. “I didn’t see why I should ask.”
    Frank grimaced. “She must have been lying in wait for us. And we walked into her trap!”
    â€œThe spider invited the fly into her parlor,” Joe joked. “Only this time it was a couple of flies, Frank. You and me.”
    The curator looked surprised. “If that was her game, you boys must have made her angry. What’s your business in London?”
    The Hardys confessed they were detectives working on the Griffinmoor case. They inquired whether the curator knew about the burglary in the Witch Museum.
    He said he hadn’t heard of it because he had been on vacation in France until the day before.
    â€œWell,” Frank pointed out, “you have quite a few items in this collection that look as if they had come from Griffinmoor.” He described the wand and the crystal ball.
    The curator slapped his forehead in dismay. “I bought these articles only yesterday. A man brought them in and said they were family heirlooms. I couldn’t reject them. They are authentic witch equipment that once belonged to Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General of East Anglia. Of course I will return them if they were stolen.”
    Frank saw a chance to pick up another clue. “Can you describe the man who sold you these objects?”
    The curator nodded. “He was of medium height. He wore a long robe, had a heavy shock of gray hair, and a bushy beard.”
    Frank and Joe exchanged startled glances. The description fit the leader of the witches at John Pickenbaugh’s funeral! The man who carried the sword!
    Frank signaled Joe not to reveal their suspicion. He told the curator they would make a report toProfessor Rowbotham. Then they thanked him and left.
    They walked out of Soho and across London’s Piccadilly Circus to Green Park. There they sat down on a bench for a review of the case.
    Joe tapped a knuckle against his chin. “Who can the palmist be, Frank? And why did she drug you?”
    â€œMy guess is that she used the needle when she couldn’t scare us off,” Frank said. “But how did she know where to wait for us? Who knew we were going to London today?”
    â€œProfessor Rowbotham.”
    â€œCheck,” Frank went on. “Who else?”
    â€œOur buddy Dr. Burelli. And don’t forget Sears,” Joe said emphatically. “He knows we’re on the Griffinmoor case, and he listens at keyholes.”
    Frank nodded slowly. “We’d better keep a close eye on him.”
    â€œAnyway, we picked up three more clues,” Joe said. “First,