sitting on his subject's chest while Murray held his arms. Vanderschoof, with the instinctive terror of the man of finance for physical violence, sat cowering in his chair.

"Get—some wire," gasped Ben. "Don't think—cloth will hold him."

Tholfsen released his hold on the legs and climbed to his feet. "Watch the other one, Murray," said Ben, his quick eye detecting a movement toward the gun on Vanderschoof's part.

"Now you, listen," he addressed the man beneath him. "We could tie you up and lay you away to pickle until you died for the lack of whatever you need, or we could turn you over to Beeville to cut up as a specimen, and by God," glaring with a kind of suppressed fury, "I wouldn't hesitate to do it! You're jeopardizing the safety of the whole community."

The grim face beneath him showed neither fear nor contrition. He hesitated a moment.

"If I let you go and give you a car and a couple of batteries, will you promise to clear out and never come back?"

Stevens laughed shortly. "Do you think you can bluff me? No."

"All right, Tholfsen, get his feet first," said Ben, as the chess-player reappeared with a length of light-cord he had wrenched from somewhere. The feet kicked energetically, but the task was accomplished and the arms secured likewise. "You watch him," said Ben, "while I get a car around."

"What are you going to do?" asked Vanderschoof, speaking for the first time since the scuffle.

"Throw him in the river!" declared Ben, with ruthless emphasis. "Let him get out of that." Stevens took this statement with a calm smile that showed not the slightest trace of strain.

"But you can't do that," protested the steamship man. "It's—it's inhuman."

"Bring him outside boys," said Ben, without deigning to reply to this protest, and clanged out to the car.

They lifted the helpless man into the back seat, and with a man on either side of him, started for Queensboro Bridge. The journey was accomplished in a dead silence.

Halfway down the span, Ben brought the taxi round with a flourish and climbed out, the other two lifting Stevens between them. Murray looked toward his friend, half expecting him to relent at the last moment, but he motioned them wordlessly on, and they set down their burden at the rail.

"Over with him!" said Ben remorselessly. They bent....

"I give up," said Stevens in a strangely husky voice. Murray and Tholfsen paused.

"Did you hear what I said?" said Ben. "Over with him!"

They heaved. "Stop!" screamed the broker. "For God's sake, I'll give up. I'll go. Oh-h-h!" The last was a scream, as Ben laid a detaining hand on Murray's arm.

"Let him down, boys," he said quietly. "Now listen, Stevens. I don't want to be hard on you—but we've got to have unanimity. You're done. Take a car and clear out. If I let you go now, will you promise to stay away?"

"Yes," said the Wall Street man. "Anything, only for God's sake don't do that!"

"All right," said Ben.

As they were loading the banker in the car for the return trip a thought struck Murray. "By the way, Ben," he remarked, "didn't he nick you with that gun?" "That's right," said Ben, "he did." And gazed down at the long bright scratch in the heavy metal that covered his shoulder joint. It was uninjured.

CHAPTER IV

Flight!

But when Tholfsen and Murray returned with the coal, Vanderschoof was missing as well as Stevens, and that evening when the car in which Marta Lami had accompanied Roberts on the exploration of the Brooklyn Heights district drew up at the Institute, it had only one occupant.

"What happened to Miss Lami?" asked Ben.

Roberts gazed at him, surprised. "Didn't you send them? While we were at the St. George Hotel a car came along with Stevens and two of those new men in it. One was the Greek. They spoke to her for a minute and she said they brought a message from you that she was to go with them."

"M-hm," said Ben. "I see. Well, as long as they don't come back, it's all right."

The car whirled out the Albany Post Road in a silence that was indicative of the rivalry that had already sprung up between Stevens and Vanderschoof. As for Pappagourdas he found himself demoted to the position of a "yes man."

They had provided themselves with a liberal supply of guns and ammunition, and with the foolish conservatism of the very rich, refusing to believe that money was valueless, had raided store after store until they had acquired a considerable supply of currency.

"This is the Bear Mountain Bridge, isn't it?" said the dancer. "Let's stop at West Point and pick up a cadet. They're so ornamental."

Stevens glanced at her sourly from the wheel. "We've got to hurry if we want to get to Albany," he said.

"Still," offered Vanderschoof protectingly, "why not stop at the Point? We might find some people there. I know Colonel Grayson. Played golf with him there last summer. Ha, ha! When I holed out an eighteen-footer at the seventh, he was so mad, he wouldn't speak to me all the rest of the afternoon. It was the turning point of the battle. Ha, ha!"

Stevens, with a grunt, swung the wheel round and began the ascent of the long bridge ramp. He realized he had been outmaneuvered. To cover his retreat, he remarked, "Isn't that a bird?"

"The high muck-a-muck said something about birds last night," said the dancer, "but he's such a Holy Joe that I didn't pay any attention."

"Aren't the birds all dead?" asked the Greek, respectfully. "I saw some in the gutter outside my window and they were turned to iron."

The car coughed to the rise, made it and slid across the bridge.

"It is a bird," said the dancer, "and what a bird! Papa, look at the ostrich."

Pappagourdas and Vanderschoof followed her pointing finger. Along its direction they saw, a couple of hundred feet behind and above them, the widespread wings and heavy body of the same type of four-winged bird Roberts had encountered. Vanderschoof tugged at his pocket. "Maybe it'll come close enough to give us a shot," he said hopefully.

The bird was certainly gaining on them, though the speedometer of the car had risen beyond forty miles an hour. As it drew nearer, they could make out the high-domed, most un-birdlike head set with pop-eyes fixed in a permanent expression of astonishment, the short bill, slightly hooked at the tip, and the huge expanse of the wings. It seemed to be inspecting them as a smaller avian might inspect a bug crawling across a road.

As it drew nearer, it swooped to within a couple dozen feet of the car; they noticed that its feet, folded back beneath the body, had a metallic luster. Then Vanderschoof fired, with a bang that almost deafened the rest. The bird seemed surprised rather than frightened or resentful. At the sound of the gun it bounded upward a few feet and then swung again, moving along parallel with the car and twisting its neck to take a good look at the passengers. The chance was too good to be missed; both Pappagourdas and Vanderschoof fired this time, steadying themselves against the motion of the car. One of the shots evidently went home, for a couple of feathers floated down, and the bird, with a series of ear-piercing squawks, spiralled down the side of the mountain toward the river-bank, three or four hundred feet below.

"Bull's eye!" yelled Pappagourdas. "Gimme the cigar! Let's stop the car and go get it."

"What's the use," said Stevens, "you couldn't eat it, anyway. Listen to him yell, would you?"

Above the sound of the motor the screeching of the wounded bird still reached them faintly from the bottom of the cliff.

"I think it's a damn shame to shoot up the poor thing," said Marta Lami.

"Oh, he'll be all right," declared Vanderschoof. "Don't believe we touched anything but one wing, and it'll just sit and eat ground-berries till it gets well."

It was perhaps half an hour