Dorothy stumbled over to the table. Near-by was a chair. She dropped into it.
“He bumped his skull on this post,” Bill went on. “No great damage, I guess. Funny—whenever there’s a rough-house in the dark, somebody invariably gets a broken head. The three of us are even now.”
“What are you going to do with him?” Her dizziness was passing.
“Oh, I’ll give him as good as he gave me, and lash him to this upright.”
He busied himself tying up the unconscious smuggler. When he had finished, he looked up and beckoned to Dorothy.
“Come over here. He’s plenty secure now. This rope held me, I guess it’ll hold him.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Find out who this chap really is.”
His fingers peeled off the false beard and Dorothy cried out in astonishment.
“Mr. Tracey!” she gasped.