eedfulness of Mr. Blake----"

So far he got. And then the smirk disappeared from his sagging mouth,
the cruelty and cupidity left his eyes, and terror crept in.

It was not Martin that checked him. It was the Voice of the Pit. In
the passing of a second, the moan from the chasm had become an
appalling roar. A very gale of hot air hit their backs as it gushed up
from below. The terrifying roaring grew in volume. It seemed to be a
tangible thing approaching them. Moto and Ichi, their prisoner
forgotten, were crouching, staring wide-eyed into the pit.

Martin reached out and gathered Ichi into his arms.

He had mentally rehearsed his movements. He hugged the Jap with his
left arm, from which wrist the irons dangled, while his right hand dove
for Ichi's coat pocket. His fingers closed about the pistol butt, and
he jerked the weapon out.

Ichi struggled furiously, awake to danger at the first touch. He could
not break Martin's bear-like hug. He screamed at the fascinated Moto;
Martin could see his lips framing cries, but not a syllable sounded
above the huge roaring that filled the caverns. Then Ichi bent his
head and sunk his teeth into Martin's arm.

The pain of the bite caused Martin to jerk his arm violently upward.
He wrenched it free from the other's teeth; involuntarily, he pressed
the trigger, and the weapon discharged. But he did not lose his grasp
on the gun; he clubbed it, and brought it down with all his might on
Ichi's head.

Ichi collapsed. He sagged in Martin's encircling arm as limply and as
lifelessly as a sack of wheat. The shot had aroused Moto; the
torturer's terrible fingers were reaching for Martin's throat. The
latter dropped Ichi, and sprang backward; and even as he did so, he
hurled the weapon at Moto's face.

It was a true shot. The heavy butt caught the Jap squarely on the
forehead, and sent him reeling and stumbling, hurled him off the level
underfooting at the cave entrance, and caused him to slip and
over-balance upon the sloping edge outside. He fell. His momentum
carried him on, and he slid down the slope toward the chasm, clutching
futilely at the wet, glassy surface. At the edge he appeared to hang
motionless for an instant, his face lifted to Martin, his mouth wide
open, his contorted features half obscured by the wreathing vapors.
Then he vanished.

Martin's knees sagged. He was horrified. So suddenly had the tragedy
happened, he was still in the posture of