"They've—got dad! I'm afraid he's—killed!"
"No!" exclaimed Jerry, pushing past.
But the first look made him believe the worst. On the floor, toppled over in the chair to which he had been bound, lay Mr. Fulton, his injured shoulder twisted way out of place, his distorted face the color of old ivory. Gagged and tightly laced to the bed lay Mr. Billings, his features working in wildest rage.
But Mr. Fulton was not dead. He came to under the deft handling of Phil and his fellow Scouts, but it was Mr. Billings who told the story of the attack.
While Mr. Fulton had been struggling with the strap that held his shoulder-brace in place, two burly men had burst through the doorway and quickly overpowered him, handicapped as he was by his useless arm. They had bound him to the chair, and then, after gagging and tying Billings, had calmly proceeded to ransack the room, one holding a pistol at Fulton's head while the other searched.
Papers scattered about on the floor, wrecked furniture and broken boxes, testified to the thoroughness of the hunt. But they had found nothing until they had thought to go through the bed on which Billings lay. Under the mattress was a portfolio packed with blueprints and plans. That was when Mr. Fulton had fallen; he had tried to free himself from his bonds and get at the two, no matter how hopeless the fight.
As Mr. Billings finished the story, Mr. Fulton opened his eyes weakly.
"Tod——" he gasped—"where's Tod?"
"Here, dad," coming close beside him where he lay on a big pile of blankets.
"Look quick and see if they found the little flat book—you know."
Tod rummaged hastily through the disordered mess of drawings littered over the bed and floor. "Not here," he confessed finally.