CHAPTER VII

A BREAK FOR LIBERTY

The heavy iron door closed behind them with a slight grating sound. Jack turned his head. The door could not be distinguished from the wall. Hangings of thick silken stuffs covered it.

"Black George" continued to smile unpleasantly, the Chinaman to regard them inscrutably. Neither spoke. The atmosphere was close and heavy, and pungent with strange Oriental odors and scents. The boys waited for Mr. Temple to take the initiative, and he was sizing up the situation.

Obviously they were trapped. And not for money. The presence of "Black George," whom they had overheard on the train and who had spied on them since at the Palace Hotel, meant only one thing to Mr. Temple. That was, that the underworld leader suspected them of having learned something of his plans.

Why had he brought them here? Again, there could be only one answer. He wanted to prevent them from informing on him to the authorities. Either he would hold them prisoner, or intimidate them with threats so that, when released, they would fear to betray him.

How much did he know? Was he aware that they already had conferred with Inspector Burton? Had he shadowed the boys to the inventor's store? Did he know or suspect the plan to utilize Inventor Bender's device for locating the radio station at the smugglers' cove?

Mr. Temple told himself it was not possible that "Black George" knew to what lengths they had gone already. Otherwise, of what use to him to capture them? The damage already was done. And, if he did not know that they already had laid their information before the authorities and that even now the move to locate the smugglers' radio was launched, then it behooved him and the boys not to tell. For, if they told, "Black George" would be forewarned, and Inspector Burton's plans to round up the smuggling band would be thwarted.

Mr. Temple glanced quickly at the boys. Would they tell? Each in turn caught his eye and gave him a scarcely perceptible nod of reassurance. It gave him something of a shock, for he realized that their active minds also had been sizing up the situation and, probably, had arrived at the same conclusions as he. They were letting him know that they could be counted upon.

Good boys! For a moment, a little mist obscured his eyes. He had been accustomed to thinking of them only as youngsters. But this summer was opening his eyes. They had played men's parts on the Mexican border. They could be counted on in this unfortunate business, too.

All these thoughts, which require some time to record, had passed through Mr. Temple's mind with lightning-like rapidity. Not a word had been spoken since their entrance.

"Black George" continued to smile at them evilly, the Chinaman to regard them with the impassive and inscrutable countenance of his race, their false guide to stand motionless to one side.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" demanded Mr. Temple angrily.

He determined to adopt the attitude that the ordinary citizen not in possession of the key to the situation would be likely to adopt under similar circumstances. It would not do to let "Black George" see they suspected his reason for entrapping them. That would indicate to him that they already had taken action against him.

"If it is money you want," he said, "say so and be done with it."

"Black George" spoke at last.

"My dear Mr. Temple," he said, "perhaps we may get some of your money, too, before we finish with you. But that isn't our first object."

Turning to their attendant he commanded:

"Bring some chairs and then leave us."

Silently but swiftly, the man brought lacquered stools without back supports, placed one behind each of the four, then lifted the hangings and disappeared.

"Sit down," said "Black George" in a suave voice, "and let us talk things over."

They complied.

"I hope," said "Black George," "that my men did not handle you roughly. They had instructions not to, and if they disobeyed they shall be punished."

"Come, come," said Mr. Temple, "drop this note of hospitality and come to the point. We are prisoners, we have been foully entrapped. What is your object?"

Dropping something of his suavity and letting more of his true character show, "Black George" leaned forward.

"I think you know, Mr. Temple," He said, "my reason for bringing you here."

"What do you mean?"

Mr. Temple was determined to maintain an attitude of outraged innocence.

"I mean," said the other, his voice growing more harsh, "that you have been meddling in matters that did not concern you."

"Explain."

"Your young men"--with a sweep of the hand that indicated the three chums--"overheard words not intended for their ears on the Flyer from the East. They sat on the observation platform while I was in conversation with a companion."

"Well?"

"No, it's far from well," said the other menacingly. "You called Inspector Burton to your apartment at the Palace."

He paused and looked fixedly at Mr. Temple.

"Now," he resumed, "I want to know just how much of my conversation these boys overheard, and just what they told Inspector Burton."

Further pretence of innocence was useless.

"And if we refuse to tell?" queried Mr. Temple.

"Black George" grinned evilly. He looked long at Mr. Temple and the boys in turn. Then he addressed the silent old Chinaman.

"Would your men like to play with them?" he asked.

"Um."

"Would they like to torture those young boys?"

"Um."

"Would they like to apply the water cure and the red-hot needles?"

"Um."

"And pull out fingernails?"

"Um."

The old Chinaman never changed expression.

In spite of their courageous spirits, the boys shivered. Mr. Temple thought only of the boys, not of himself. Would these scoundrels really torture them? It was unbelievable. Yet if they should----

"Look here," he said gruffly, "quit this nonsense. This is the twentieth century, and such things are not done. We are not children to be frightened by such talk."

"Ah," said "Black George" smoothly, "but this is San Francisco's Chinatown. Don't forget that. You probably thought it was not possible to trap you, either. But you notice it was done. Your presence here ought to be sufficient indication to you that torture is not impossible."

"You, scoundrel," blazed Mr. Temple, "you'll pay for this. Others know where I have gone. My original guide from the restaurant is waiting for me, and----"

"One of my men," said "Black George" succinctly. "And your chauffeur, too."

"Well and good, but the head waiter at the restaurant has my name and----"

"My man, too," said "Black George." He rose suddenly, walked close to Mr. Temple, and leaned over and glared into his face.

"Furthermore," he added, "supposing you get out of this scrape, don't try to make trouble for them. My agents don't know all I do, but I protect the men useful to me. Understand?"

As Mr. Temple kept silence, controlling his features, but in reality sore at heart, "Black George" started to move backward slowly.

Suddenly big Bob, who all the time had been quietly working his hands free from the hastily tied bonds, leaped upon him. Bob's hands went around the other's throat, throttling him and preventing him from crying out.

At the same moment, Frank and Jack, who also had been working at their bonds and with equal success, leaped for the old Chinaman. The latter moved with surprising swiftness for one of his age. Springing from the chair, he waved a long dagger which mysteriously appeared in his talon-like hand and began to shout a shrill jabber of Chinese words.

Jack leaped in low, arms extended, making a flying tackle as he so often had done on the football field at Harrington Hall Military Academy. The old Chinaman started to move backward, waving his dagger.

Frank swung the lacquered stool upon which he had been seated aloft and sent it hurtling through the air. His aim was deadly. The heavy stool caught the Chinaman square on the side of the head, just as Jack pinned him around the knees.

He went down like a log, his dagger clattering to the floor.