“In the bed!” gasped the “Kid.” “He’s there, covered up!”
Slowly and unwillingly, an inch at a time as if drawn by some irresistible force, the three Wolves crossed the room and approached the bed. They could all see the huddled form lying there, covered even to the face. There was something about it—an utter absence of motion—that terrified them. But they could not turn back.
The “Kid” reached the bedside and for a long moment stood glaring down. Then, with shaking fingers, he caught the edge of the bedding and threw it back.
In the concentrated light of the lantern, there stared up at them the livid face of Louie Martin. His glazed eyes protruded, and there was a trickle of blood running from his nostril to the left corner of his mouth. And in his face was an expression of frozen horror which stopped the hearts even of the hardened crooks who looked down in momentary paralysis.
With a scream, the “Kid” dropped the lantern and turned, treading upon the toes of the Strangler. Another scream sounded, high and shrill—it came from the direction of the bed.
“Why can’t you let me rest?” a quavering voice protested. “This is my room—”
They heard no more. The three swore and sobbed as they raced for the front room. They slammed doors behind them, and brought up, shaking as if in ague, directly under the big, brilliantly lighted chandelier.
“Somebody bumped him off—and he came back to tell us about it!” the “Kid” whispered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AH WING LISTENS IN
“He’s certainly good and dead!” Monte said, as he stood looking down at the body of Louie Martin. “Whatever they did to him, it was a plenty! But you boys must be a little bilious—you can see for yourselves that he hasn’t been doing any talking for some time. What you heard was the wind, blowing around the corners of the house!”