u! That glass of
water, throw it on his face."

Kashtanov--Istafiev. Names that could belong to only one country, to
that huge power overseas which was hovering, so said rumors, on the
brink of war, waiting only for a favorable opportunity to strike--the
country which the war game around the Canal had been designed to
impress. Chris Travers' mind cleared just then with complete
comprehension of who had schemed to send both dirigibles down and who
had built this secret lair on Azuero Peninsula.

Inwardly, he groaned. It was all too plain. The destruction of the
ZX-2 and the thwarted destruction of her sister had only been the
first step of some gigantic plan which was to provide the opportunity
for the mighty fighting machine overseas to strike. And he, who might
have balked it, had made a rotten landing from the scout and delivered
himself, helpless by his own clumsiness, into the hands of these men.
The self-accusation was bitter.

With their secret of invisibility, their deadly blue rays, what havoc
couldn't they wreak, working from their cunningly concealed base?

And now they were waiting for him to recover consciousness--waiting to
question him before killing him....

But as he lay there, apparently still senseless, Chris was grappling
with the seemingly hopeless problem. So, even when he felt the
tingling coldness of a spray of water on his cheeks, not one line of
his face moved, nor did the tiniest flutter of eyelids betray him.

Although the fumbled landing in the jungle had been a catastrophe, it
had granted him his only weapon. He was believed to be genuinely
unconscious.

"Another--he iss stubborn," hissed the voice of the man called
Istafiev. "His senses will soon come. I can bring them back--oh,
yess!"

"Enough of this!" complained the suave, beautifully modulated voice.
"Darkness is coming; there's a lot to be done. Shoot him and throw him
out!"

"It iss I who am in command here, comrade Kashtanov. Remember that. I
desire to speak to this man. There! No? No sign yet? Well! We will
see if this helps those eyes of yours to open, my American!"

Then began sheer torture.

* * * * *

It was an ordeal of silence. By no motion, sound or slightest sign of
consciousness could he seek relief. Inanimate Chris Travers lay,
holding his pose sturdily, although it seemed that the sweat was
spurting from the pores, while a thin, cruel knife-blade drove into
the quivering ner