In that split second, Philip went into action. Before Graybeard knew what was happening the pistol had been knocked from his hand. At the same moment, Philip’s fist crashed against his jaw. Graybeard went limp and toppled to the floor.
Phil leaped over his unconscious body to retrieve the gun. Then he took his own pistol from Graybeard’s pocket.
“Now the tables are nicely turned,” Phil chuckled. He quickly tore strips from the black draperies on the wall and tied the man’s hands and feet together. He worked fast because he was worried about what was going on upstairs.
Then he heard sounds on the other side of the door at the top of the steps. Phil held his pistol ready. One of the gunmen, worried by the prolonged absence of Graybeard, might be coming down to see what was happening in the secret room.
The door swung open, and, to Phil’s relief, Pat leaped down the stairs. Phil met him halfway. “What happened?” he asked nervously. “The girls—are they all right?”
“Everybody’s just fine,” Pat said, grinning. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Let’s see what you have here first.”
He bent down and yanked the beard and mask from the unconscious man’s face.
“Whew!” Pat and Phil whistled in one breath. “Our nice cheap laundry man!”
For it was Mr. Taggart, and, as he regained consciousness, glaring with rage up at Phil, his face was anything but pleasant.