Quickly he closed down the cover of the tube, but not before a vile effluvium seemed to escape, and penetrate even to us in our hiding places. As he moved forward, Kennedy gave a flying leap at him, and we followed with a regular football interference.
It was the work of only a moment for us to subdue and hold him, while
Craig ripped off the helmet.
It was Dan the Dude.
"What's that thing?" I puffed, as I helped Craig with the headgear.
"An oxygen helmet," he replied. "There must be air down the tube that cannot be breathed."
He went over to the tube. Carefully he opened the top and gazed down, starting back a second later, with his face puckered up at the noxious odor.
"Sewer gas," he ejaculated, as he slammed the cover down. Then he added to the policeman, "Where do you suppose it comes from?"
"Why," replied the officer, "the St. James Drain—an old sewer—is somewhere about these parts."
Kennedy puckered his face as he gazed at our prisoner. He reached down quickly and lifted something off the man's coat.
"Golden hair," he muttered. "Elaine's!"