WHAT HAPPENED TO FRANK.
“By Jawve!”
Harvey Wynne started and stared at the fierce little man in the doorway
as if thoroughly astounded.
“By Jawve!” repeated the newspaper correspondent, acting his part
perfectly. “What cawn be the meaning of this? It is blooming singular,
don’t yer know.”
Frank knew well enough what it meant. It meant trouble, and the boy
seemed to feel that it was trouble of no ordinary nature.
Still Frank was cool and deliberate. He turned to the proprietor of the
place, a ring of indignation in his voice, as he demanded:
“Is this your boasted protection to visitors, Monsieur Bornier? Am I to
be forcibly detained and robbed in your place?”
Bornier was distressed. It was plain that he did not like the turn
affairs were taking, and yet he seemed unable to interfere. He thrust
out his hand in a helpless protest, but Durant cut in, his voice rasping
like a coarse file:
“Sit down, monsieur. You will not be robbed of your money, but you have
something that you consider far more valuable.”
Frank did not mistake the meaning of the little wretch. If it was not a
case of money, then, surely, it must be one of life.
And now the boy felt his fighting blood rising. No longer was he awed by
his uncanny surroundings, and the threatening shadow that had seemed to
hang like a thundercloud over the place.
“Stand aside!” he cried, his voice ringing out clear. “Stand from that
door, man, or, by the gods of war! you will wish you had!”
There was fire in Frank Merriwell’s eyes, there was electricity in every
gesture, and the words left his lips like musket shots.
Wynne arose.
“By Jawve!” he drawled. “It weally looks like a wow, don’t yer ’now! If
there is anything I detest it is a nawsty wow.”
Then Wynne advanced toward the door, shaking his cane at Durant in a
fierce way that was ludicrously weak and foppish.
“Get wight away fwom that door!” he squawked. “If you attempt to detain
me, sir, I will cwack your blooming head with this stick!”
Frank saw the newspaper correspondent had aroused to the peril of the
situation, and that gave the boy a feeling of satisfaction. He had not
wished to leave the place unaccompanied by Wynne, but now Wynne was
ready to get out, if possible.
Durant made a sign, and the other desperate characters of the place
flocked to his side.
“You will not leave this place till we say you may go,” declared the
anarchist, his lips curling back from his wolfish teeth. “One of
you—perhaps both—may not leave it at all.”
“But I say, old chappie, what is the meaning of this?” demanded Wynne,
apparently in a flutter. “Will you tell us what we have done?”
“One of you is a spy.”
“A spy?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of a spy?”
“A spy who is very dangerous—a spy who will do us unspeakable harm if he
is allowed to escape.”
Wynne looked at Frank, and that look spoke as plainly as words. It said,
“We must make a dash for it.”
The boy felt for his revolvers. He found both weapons ready to his
touch, and out they came.
“Stand aside!” he cried, as he flung up the shining “guns.” “If you do
not clear the way, somebody will eat bullets!”
That he meant it there could be no doubt. The ruffians were not quite
prepared for this rapid movement, and they dodged and ducked to the
right and left, getting away from the muzzles of the revolvers. Even
Durant sprang aside.
But Frank had not taken one step toward the door when it was blocked by
another form.
The masked unknown was there!
“Stop!” she cried, with upflung hand. “I do not fear your bullets. Shoot
if you dare!”
The eyes that gleamed through the twin holes in her mask were like two
stars. Her gesture was one of utter fearlessness.
Frank hesitated.
“It is Mademoiselle Mystere!” said Durant, with satisfaction. “She will
tell us if either of these is the spy.”
“One of them is the spy,” declared the woman of the sable mask.
“It will not do for either to escape if one is disposed of,” said
Vaugirad, in a cutting whisper that was heard in every part of the room.
Montparnasse’s long fingers were working, twining and wrapping
themselves about each other, and there was a look of mingled hesitation
and eagerness on his foxy face.
Only Bornier seemed uncertain and distressed.
“Not here!” he cried—“you shall not do the work here!”
There was a moment of great suspense—a moment of supreme uncertainty.
Then Durant snarled:
“Who shows the white liver now is a traitor! It must be done!”
One of his hands went into the breast of his coat and came out again.
His fingers grasped the hilt of a wicked-looking knife.
Other weapons appeared, but Bornier cried again:
“Not here! I have your pledge! Would you break your oath to a comrade?”
Durant’s manner seemed to change somewhat. He thrust aside the knife.
“No,” he snarled, “we will not break the oath, but blood will be shed.
That is bound to come, you shall see.”
Frank felt that not another moment could be wasted.
Yet he did not wish to shoot down a woman, and a woman blocked the
doorway. His revolvers disappeared, and, with a fierce cry, he leaped at
Mademoiselle Mystere.
Hands were thrust out to grasp the boy, and some of them reached him.
The woman struck him fair in the face, but he did not mind the blow in
the least. He sought to tear himself free, to cast his assailants to the
right and left. In the meantime Harvey Wynne suddenly awoke. He lay
about him vigorously with his cane, sending one or two fellows reeling.
He saw Frank break clear just as the heavy stick had cut a pathway to
the door, and, springing through, he shouted:
“Come on, Merriwell!”
He believed Frank was close at his heels, and he made a rush straight
for the outer door. Two men arose up before him. He laid the head of one
open with his heavy cane, and a sharp blow broke the wrist of the other.
The door was reached. His hands fell on the bars, and they were jerked
from their sockets. Chains rattled, and, a second later, he flung
himself headlong out into the night.
Wynne ran from the spot, but only for a short distance. He whirled
about, calling to Frank, but receiving no answer. Then, for the first
time, the thought came to him that he might have deserted his friend and
countryman in that place of deadly peril.
Not a moment did Wynne pause after that thought struck him, but back to
the door of the Red Flag he dashed, ready to charge in there again, and
place himself at Frank Merriwell’s side, no matter how great the peril.
The door was closed and barred. He beat upon it. There was no answer.
The place seemed dark and deserted.
“Oh!” gasped Harvey Wynne. “What have I done! Where is that boy with the
nerves of iron?”
The thought that he had deserted Frank to a frightful fate made Wynne
feel the utmost humiliation and self-contempt. He was thoroughly
disgusted and ashamed of himself. He pictured Merriwell weltering in his
blood within that dreadful place.
Then Wynne dashed away to find a police officer. An officer was soon
found, and the excited young American told his story.
The officer looked incredulous.
“In Bornier’s?” he questioned, doubtfully.
“Yes, sir the place that is called the Red Flag!”
“Why, it’s impossible.”
“How so?”
“Bornier never has any desperadoes around him. Those chaps are mild as
new milk. Bornier keeps them there for show purposes, and gives them
fictitious records for all sorts of crimes, but never one of them all
has committed a crime beyond the most petty roguery. Do you think the
police would permit such a place to exist if Bornier’s pickpockets,
burglars, anarchists, and murderers were what he represents them to be?
Oh, you have made a mistake! You were in some other place, or you may
have been taking too much wine.”
Wynne insisted. After a time he induced the officer to accompany him to
Bornier’s. They were readily admitted.
A very tough crowd was gathered in both rooms, but Wynne saw but a
single face that he had noticed there before. Durant, Lenoir, Vaugirad
and Montparnasse were gone. Mademoiselle Mystere was gone. Bornier alone
was there. He received them smilingly, and he denied having ever seen
Wynne before.
“My dear friend,” he said, with a deprecating smile and a shrug, “you
are so very much mistaken. These people nearly all have been here one or
two hours. Ask them. There has been no fight here. I know nothing of
this young man for whom you search.”
Wynne became furious.
“Look here!” he cried: “you may convince this officer, but I know
better. This does not drop here. I plainly see I can do nothing
to-night; but you will hear from me again!”
And he left the Red Flag.
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