another
statement to Martin Powell.
“Alvarez Legira is playing a game,” declared the financier. “He has pretended that his schemes are
legitimate. Actually, he has been angling to obtain the sum of ten million dollars.”
“Ten million dollars!” cried Powell.
“Yes,” continued Hendrix, “that is the amount at stake. Everything has been arranged for Legira to
receive it upon demand. Yet the funds have not been actually delivered to him. I am the only one who
can frustrate his schemes. When I lift this receiver, it means the beginning of the end.
“As matters now stand, Legira has access to the millions. When I have completed this telephone call, the
schemer will find his chances ended. It will be an impossibility for Alvarez Legira ever to obtain the
money.”
HENDRIX was speaking dramatically. His flabby face registered triumph. Portly and lethargic, Hendrix
had none of the appearance that denotes a clever man. Nevertheless, he was about to score a victory
over the shrewd Legira.
The ticking clock showed ten minutes before the hour. Hendrix smiled. There was ample time. He
enjoyed this triumph in which he was playing the principal role, with Powell and Jermyn as awestruck
spectators.
The financier looked at Powell; then at Jermyn. There, his gaze froze. Hendrix noted that Jermyn's face
had paled; that the man was not listening to what his master was saying; that he was staring wild- eyed
toward the door of the office.
Martin Powell caught the change in the financier's expression. He saw Hendrix glance toward the door;
instinctively, the investigator did the same.
The hallway beyond was dark, due to an unlighted turn that led into the office. Some one was standing in
that hall—a man whose face was indistinguishable in the gloom. But it was not that fact that interested the
gazers.
The man's hand was in plain view. It held a shining revolver. The weapon was directed toward John
Hendrix, threatening death, should he make a single move!
CHAPTER XII. DEATH IN THE DARK
A LONG, tense series of moments followed. The three men in the office of the financier's apartment
formed a startled tableau. Jermyn, closest to the door, was standing petrified with fear. Powell, seated
beside the desk, was solemn and tense. Hendrix, telephone in hand, was plainly startled.
Not a word was spoken from the little hallway. The man there held the three at his mercy. He made no
announcement of his intention. He seemed content for the moment to hold matters as they were.
Ten minutes of nine!
The thought worried Hendrix. Unless this call went through, Legira could obtain the money from Cody.
Was that the purpose of this threat? Had some accomplice arrived to hold these men at bay until Legira's
work had ended?
Hardly so, thought Hendrix. He realized that Legira could not have known of that special message to
Cody, telling him to hold the delivery of the funds until after nine o'clock.
Angered, despite his bewilderment, Hendrix tried to scan the face behind the gun. He suddenly decided
that it might be Legira, back again. Had the South American seen Martin Powell enter here?
