“You—your boy?”
“Yes. My boy. Didn’t you know? The fine boy I introduced to you that night, who took you for that long walk—that was my only son. None ever had higher ideals and nobler ambition than he. He was the Voice. And now he is—”
At that instant Johnny held up a hand. A moment before he had turned the dial back. A sound now came from the radio. The same booming voice sounded again:
“Ladies and gentlemen, you must pardon the interruption. A thunderstorm crippled our power station. We were off the air for a time. As we were about to say, some time back, there will be no message from the Voice to-night, nor, indeed, on any other night.”
“The Ferret” sank lower in his chair.
“As I was saying,” the announcer went on, “a terrible thing has happened. An attempt was made upon this brave young man’s life, he who was known as the Voice. Fortunately, this was an unsuccessful attempt. His wounds are of little consequence. The assailant—”
At that “The Ferret” sprang up with a cry:
“He lives! He lives! Thank God, he lives!”
The assailant, Johnny gathered from what followed, had been captured by a private detective employed to guard the Voice.
“The man who had betrayed the brave youth, the man known to the underworld only as the Spy, is reported killed in the north woods.”