He could not have been unconscious more than ten minutes. When he came to, the forest was silent once more. A figure lay beside him, a man with a gray beard, his figure enshrouded in a long gray coat.
“The Gray Shadow!” he thought with a start. “At last he is still.”
Joyce Mills was hovering over him. When he sat up dizzily, she gave a sharp cry of joy.
Heavy footsteps came crashing through the brush. Drew Lane, Tom Howe and “The Ferret” were there.
“What happened?” Drew demanded. “They surrendered tamely enough, old Greasy Thumb and Three Fingers. The Chief was with them and—”
“The Chief!” Johnny could not conceal his surprise.
“Yes, and his whispering reporter. But what is this? And who are these?”
He pointed first to the Gray Shadow; then to a dark form huddled in the weeds.
“The Ferret” played the light of his electric torch on the dark huddled form.
“That,” he said impressively, “is the Spy—the worst man that ever lived. And he’s done for. Thank God! A bullet in his head.”