And while Don Hale stood there, irresolute, his ears distinctly caught the sound of footsteps. Then followed a sharp, metallic click.
A stream of whitish light was fantastically streaking across the ground toward the boys.
An involuntary exclamation escaped Don’s lips. He felt himself almost shivering.
But a few paces away stood a man. And, clearly, the electric torch which he carried was seeking them out. What was the meaning of it all? How had they been so unerringly tracked?
Nearer and nearer came the brilliant white rays; then leaving the ground they shot upward, wavered forth and back erratically and presently fell squarely upon his face.
“Make no move, Messieurs!” exclaimed a strong, firm voice. “You are under arrest!”
“Under arrest!” gasped Don, literally astounded. “Who—who are you?”
“I don’t—I don’t understand!” quavered Bobby Dunlap. Rather feebly, sepulchrally he echoed Don Hale’s query: “Who are you?”
The white light suddenly described a circle in the air, and flashed for one brief, solitary instant, upon a silver shield. The man was holding his coat open, thus allowing it to be seen.
“What—what does this mean?” stuttered Peur Jamais, while Don Hale, more surprised, more nonplused than he had ever been in his life, vainly strove to see the features of the mysterious person before them.