One man stood on the running board, on either side of him, and two guns yawned menacingly at him.
"Drive ahead—that way!" muttered one man, seating himself in the runabout with his gun close to the doctor's ribs.
The other kept his place on the running board, and on they drove in the direction of the mysterious, dark house. Half a mile, perhaps, down the road, they halted and left the car beside the walk.
Dr. Morton was too surprised to marvel at anything now and he realized that he was in the power of two desperate men. Quickly, they blindfolded him.
It seemed an interminable walk, as they led him about to confuse him, but at last he could feel that they had taken him into a house and along passageways, which they were making unnecessarily long in order to destroy all recollection that they could. Finally he knew that he was in a room in which others were present. He suppressed a shudder at the low, menacing voices.
A moment later he felt them remove the bandage from his eyes, and, blinking at the light, he could see a hard-faced fellow, pale and weak, on a blood-stained couch. Over him bent a masked man and another man stood nearby, endeavoring by improvised bandages to stop the flow of blood.
"What can you do for this fellow?" asked the masked man.
Dr. Morton, seeing nothing else to do, for he was more than outnumbered now, bent down and examined him.
As he rose, he said, "He will be dead from loss of blood by morning, no matter if he is properly bandaged."
"Is there nothing that can save him?" whispered the Clutching Hand hoarsely.