“He’s dying!” whispered several.
“He was stabbed close to the heart!” came faintly from one chap, who then covered his face with his hands and reeled into the other room.
Bart Hodge was supporting Frank’s head. Harry Rattleton was sobbing. Ready turned away. Some of them grasped him.
“What shall we do with him?” said one.
“We’ll have to turn him over to the police,” said another.
Ready said not a word.
“Well, we can put him in the dissecting-chamber till we find out if Merriwell really is dying.”
“That’s right. He’ll be safe there.”
They hustled him along to yet another door, yanked it open, pushed him into a room, and closed and fastened the door. It is certain that Ready was startled when he saw before him the luminous outlines of a human skeleton, which seemed to stand upright, pointing an accusing finger at him.
He caught his breath and stared at the thing before him, feeling his hair seem to rise on his head. He did not know that, the moment he was safely within that room, the signal was given and Frank Merriwell, who had seemed to be mortally wounded, sat up and laughed, while his companions joined in the merriment.