“I won’t believe it!” exclaimed the Virginian, in hot rebellion at the thought. “I won’t believe that splendid fellow can be destroyed in such a manner! I won’t believe that brilliant mind can be clouded! Don’t speak of it again!”
“You will not believe, and yet you fear. Where do you suppose he is now?”
“I haven’t the least idea.”
At that very moment Frank Merriwell was a helpless captive in the hands of the dreaded Black Brothers!
Around Frank Merriwell were stone walls. He was standing in the midst of a cellar, with his back bound to a pillar. At one end of the cellar was a wooden door; at the other end was a flight of stairs. Around Frank stood seven men, all dressed in black cloaks and hoods.
Frank had made a desperate attempt to hunt down the Black Brothers, but the result had been that he had fallen into their clutches. But a few moments before he had been bound to the pillar. His hat and coat were gone, for he had not succumbed without a struggle. The leader of the band stepped forward.
“At last, my brothers,” he said, in a deep voice, “we have captured the one most dangerous to us and to the honor of France. He is in our power, and we can destroy him.”
“We can,” said the others, in unison.
“But first,” said the chief, “we must find on him the precious ball that contains one-half of the torn document that proved the innocence of Dreyfus.”