“Hereafter,” said the American youth, “you will do your strangling with one hand!”
A furious snarl of anger and pain came from the wounded wretch, and, striking out with his fist, judging well where to hit, Frank Merriwell struck Bruant down in the dark. Then, in a most remarkable manner, he found his way across the room to the door that had closed behind him when he entered. Satisfied he had reached the door, he flung his shoulder against it, and burst it open.
The old man in the front shop stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Monsieur,” said Frank quietly, “the man in the back room needs the services of a skilful surgeon.”
Then he walked out of the place, and no hand was raised to halt him. He was not a little surprised at the easy manner in which he had escaped, for he had expected to fight his way out of a nest of desperadoes.
Even after he was on the street, and walking swiftly from that spot, it did not seem possible he had been fortunate enough to get away so quickly, and with such little difficulty. On leaving the shop, he had returned the revolver to his pocket, as a man hurrying along the streets of Paris at night, with a loaded revolver in his grasp, is sure to attract considerable attention.
Just then attention was something little desired by Frank. He had been forced to use his revolver in self-defense, but he had not shot to kill. He felt sure he had simply broken the arm of the man who had clutched his throat. When it was all over, Frank wondered somewhat at his perfect tranquillity, for he was not shaking in the least.
In Paris, he had expected to rest, and enjoy life. He had fancied no dangers would beset him there, but he had found such dangers as he had seldom known, and his adventures were of the most sensational nature. When he was a little distance from the shop, he felt in his pocket, to make sure the precious metal ball was still there. His fingers found it, and he was well satisfied.
“Not till the right one comes will I part with it,” he muttered.
Now he felt certain the Duke of Benoit du Sault had spoken nothing but the simple truth when he claimed that in some manner the tiny ball might help to establish the innocence of the captive of Devil’s Island. No longer was he inclined to believe the duke mentally unbalanced. He was now willing to accept the story of the Black Brothers and the blood-red star. It was uncanny and weird enough, and still it aroused in him a desire to solve the mystery, and learn the whole truth.