Then Bryan saw that he and the others were crossing one edge of an open space. The pavilion rose in the middle of it, a pale ghostly shape against the darkness. It would remain a symbol for him. For within sight of it his life had begun—and ended.
A path swallowed him and his captors. The pavilion faded from view. Ahead was the sprawling bulk of the city, dotted and splashed with light.
It was against this backdrop that the sound came, rising out of inaudibility. The flapping of great wings.
Wings!
A vast wind seemed to blow through Bryan. He stopped dead, staring up into the sky.
The detective and his companion seemed to hear the sound also. They, too, peered upward, puzzled.
Bryan thought he knew where to look. And glancing back in the direction of the pavilion, he saw a vague dark shape against the stars. Sudden urgency roared in him like thunder.
The pavilion! He had to go back!
He lifted his imprisoned arms and swung them in a sweeping club-like blow. The policeman dropped before he could move his gun back into line. The detective swore in dismay, sent a hand darting under his coat—but Bryan was already whirling toward him. He kneed the man in the stomach, then felled him with a chopping blow to the back of the head.