Seeking to forget the knife above, Cleve rolled his head and stared in each direction.
There were no shadows in this room. The queer, flickering illumination came from some hidden source. All the floor was the same dull hue. The walls were straight and barren. Only the door offered hope.
Cleve stared toward it, hopelessly. If that barrier could only move upward to admit the only man who could make a rescue here!
But the door did not move. Low, sinister whispers made Cleve stare upward. He saw the gloating face of Foy, with its cruel lips uttering words to the witness. Foo Chow stooped and looked at Cleve’s body, to note the exact spot where Foy said the deadly knife would go.
Up came the hand of Foy. The blade glimmered its message of death. The hand lowered and swung upward again.
Cleve’s bulging eyes were amazed as they saw the knife fly backward from Foy’s hand, as the slayer’s arm was at the top of its swing.
With a swift, incredible leap, Foy flung himself across Cleve’s body. The hands of the slayer seized the throat of Foo Chow and hurled the actor writhing on the floor.
Cleve could not understand. Foo Chow had not spoken; yet Foy was attacking him!
The struggle was swiftly ended. Foo Chow was motionless. Foy crouched above the body of this victim, whom he had taken before he chose to deal with Cleve.
What was the purpose of this odd attack?