While Ping was still wrenched with this startling exhibition, an even more astounding spectacle was wafted his way.
Motor Matt followed Wily around the house corner, paused an instant in front of the open door, then was swallowed up in the dark interior.
Ping had not called out, for amazement had held him speechless.
The Chinese boy had blundered in leaping from the street car, but, as it had chanced, that had been a blunder in the right direction. All the heathen gods of luck had been ranged on his side, too, when he followed the crossroad and went into communion with himself in the clump of bushes facing the green-shuttered house.
In about two minutes, Ping figured, Matt would have Bill Wily by the heels. So it followed, if Ping was to have any part in the capture, he would have to hurry.
In the excitement of the moment he forgot his bruises, emerged from the undergrowth, and made his way rapidly toward the house.
At the open door he stopped, thrust his head into the hallway, and used his ears.
The silence was intense, and not the faintest sound was to be heard.
There was something weirdly mysterious about this. With Matt and Wily both in the house, and each more or less hostile toward the other, there should have been a good deal of noise.
A qualm raced through Ping's nerves.