"Four drivers of racing-cars," answered the spokesman of the party, "bringing the Dutch chum of the fellow who calls himself Motor Matt."
"Give me the countersign."
"Four speeds forward and one reverse."
The countersign was whispered.
"Enter, drivers, and finish your work," went on the sepulchral voice.
Two minutes later the Dutch boy was seated in a chair, released, and the cloth whisked from his head. With a shout of anger he started to his feet.
"Sit down!" commanded a voice sternly.
The captive was blinded by a glare of acetyline lamps, the rays of which crossed the room from all four walls, interlacing and merging in one comprehensive glow. Gradually, as the captive's eyes became accustomed to the light, he made out the mouth of a small cannon thrust into his face. Back of the gun stood a figure cowled in white.
The Dutch boy started back from the leveled weapon and sank into his chair once more; then his wondering eyes swerved about him.