LONG TOM, the scrawny-looking electrical wizard, hurried into the laboratory. He came out with an apparatus which might easily be mistaken for an old-time magic lantern.
The lights were switched off. Long Tom flicked a switch on his machine. He pointed at the window on which Doc had written.
Doc's message sprang out on the darkened windowpane. Glowing with a dazzling electric blue, its appearance was uncanny.
Long Tom's apparatus was simply a lamp which projected strong ultra-violet light rays. The substance with which Doc had written on the window, although invisible to the naked eye, would glow in eerie fashion in the ultra- violet light.
It was by this method that Doc habitually left messages for his men.
The five read the communication. Doc's handwriting, machinelike in its perfection, was as easy to read as newsprint:
Here is your job, Ham: The Mongols are holding Juan
Mindoro and his friend, Scott S. Osborne. A messenger
will visit Osborn's brother, to demand a ransom.
Your work as a lawyer has probably brought you
in contact with the family attorney of Osborn's
brother, so you should be able to work through him
and persuade them to pay the ransom demanded.
We will then follow the man to whom it is paid.
But do not follow the messenger who demands it.
'This will be a cinch,' Ham declared, spinning his sword cane adroitly. 'I happen to be quite well acquainted with that attorney. Incidentally, he is the lawyer of both Scott S. Osborn and his brother.'
'Shut up!' Monk grunted insultingly. 'Don't you think we want to read the rest?'
They deciphered the remainder of the instructions in silence:
Monk, Renny, Long Tom, and Johnny will go to Scott
S. Osborn's home north of town. The place is built
like a medieval castle. Inside are perhaps a dozen
Mongols and half-castes. You will ship them to our
institution, then come back here and wait.
'Holy cow!' Renny was bewailing. 'There won't be any excitement in our part of it!'
Monk's big grin was crowding his ears.
'I got hopes, though!' he chuckled. 'If Doc has bagged that many men this early in the game, it shows we've tackled something that is plenty big. We may get our feet wet yet!'
Monk was no prophet. His feet wet! He'd be deep enough in trouble to drown, before long. But he had no way of knowing that.
HAM watched the others depart to ship the Orientals Doc had captured to the up-state institution, where they would receive the effective, if unusual, treatment that would turn them into honest men.
A telephone call put Ham in touch with the elderly lawyer who served Scott S. Osborn and his brother. Ham explained what he desired.
'The family might hesitate about complying with the wishes of a stranger,' he finished. 'It would help greatly if you would sort of put the O.K. on me. I am, of course, working for the interest of your clients.'
'I'll do better than that!' declared the other attorney. 'I shall be at the home of Osborn's brother when you arrive. When I advise them of the situation, I am sure they will do as you desire.'
'That will be great,' Ham assured him.
Ham hurried to his bachelor quarters, in a club which was one of the most luxurious in the city, although not widely known. The members were all wealthy men who wished to live quietly.
A change of clothing was the object of Ham's visit. He donned formal evening garb, secured a more natty- looking sword cane from a collection he kept on hand, and took a taxi to the home of Scott S. Osborn's brother.
The dwelling was large. It might have been mistaken for a small apartment building.
Dismissing his taxi, Ham mounted the steps. He was about to ring the bell when his hand froze.
A stream of scarlet was crawling slowly from under the door.
Ham listened. He could hear nothing. He tried the knob. It turned, but the door, after opening about two inches, would go no farther. Ham shoved. He could tell that he was pushing against a body lying on the floor inside.
He got the panel half open, put his head in cautiously. The vestibule was brilliantly lighted. No living person was in sight.
The body of the old lawyer whom Ham had called not many minutes ago, had been blocking the door. The elderly man had been stabbed at least fifteen times.
Ham, his sword cane ready, stepped inside. The weight of the dead man against the door shoved it shut. The lock clicked loudly.
As though that were a signal, a man hurtled from a near-by door.
The fellow was chunky, lemon-complected, sloping of eye. His face was a killer mask. He waved a sword.
It was Liang-Sun, although Ham didn't know that, not having seen him before.
Liang-Sun got a shock when Ham unsheathed the slender, rippling steel blade of his sword cane. Ham's blade leaped out hungrily.
With desperate haste, Liang-Sun parried. He was surprised, but still confident. Among the fighting men of Mongolia and China, he had been considered quite a swordsman.
Ten seconds later, Liang-Sun's confidence leaked out like water from a gunnysack. The air before his face had apparently turned into a whistling hell of sharp steel. A chunk of his hat brim was sliced off and fluttered away.
Liang-Sun felt like a man clubbing a swarm of hornets with a stick. Backing up, he sought to haul a revolver from his coat pocket with his left hand. He hadn't wanted to use the gun before, because of the noise. But he would be glad to do so now.
A dazzling slash of Ham's sword cut the whole skirt and pocket from Liang-Sun's coat, and the revolver bounced away.
STEEL whined, clashed, rasped. Both fighters sought to get to the revolver. Neither could quite do it.
Liang-Sun felt a tickling sensation across his stomach. He looked down and saw his clothing had been slit wide. Another inch would have finished him.
He backed away swiftly, passing through the door from which he had leaped. Ham followed, cutting and parrying briskly.
A man was sprawled across a table in the room. He had white hair, ruddy features. He, too, had been stabbed to death.
Ham had seen the man once before, perhaps a year ago. It was the brother of Scott S. Osborn.
A wall safe gaped open.
On the table with the dead man lay a heap of jewels, rings, currency.
This explained the situation to Ham.
The Mongol messenger had come to demand ransom, had seen the money, and decided a bird in hand was better than one in the bush. He had slain and robbed Osborn's brother, rather than bother with ransom.
The poor old lawyer out by the door had been murdered when he arrived.
White with rage, Ham redoubled his sword play. Liang-Sun fairly ran backward. A sudden spring put him
