weak little voice which uttered the
valiant monosyllable.

"Here, Miss Marigold. Take this revolver. Don't use it until you have
to, but then don't hesitate a second."

The machine started slowly up the street. Shirley groped about the
sides and bottom of the car, to make sure that no one could be concealed
within it. They were advancing up Broadway in leisurely fashion. It
might have been for the purpose of allowing some to follow. Shirley
wondered, then sniffed the air suspiciously. The girl looked at him with
a silent question.

"Quick, tear off your glove and let me have that diamond ring I noticed
on your finger, the large solitaire, not the dinner ring."

Unquestioningly she obeyed. There was a strange Oriental odor in the
car--suggestive of an incense. The car was gliding up Central Park West,
toward one of the road entrances into the Park proper. Shirley's hand
clutched the ring, tensely. The driver, tactfully looking straight to
the front, gave no heed to the occupants of the Death Car. He was, by
this time speeding too rapidly for either of his passengers to have
leaped out without injury. Shirley understood the smoothness of the
voice's system, by now. His hand slid to the top of the glass door pane,
on the right. Down the glass, across the bottom, down from the other
corner, and then over the top line, he cut with the diamond, using a
peculiar pressure. He rose to his feet, gave the lower part of the pane
a sharp tap. The glass, practically cut loose from its case, now
dropped and would have slid out to the roadway with a crash had he not
dexterously caught it, to draw it into the car. Quickly he repeated
the operation with the door pane at the left. A nauseating, weakening
something in the car sent Helene's head spinning; she choked for breath
and lay back weakly, despite her will. Shirley turned to the small glass
square in the rear. This came out more easily. He lay the glass with the
others, on the floor of the car. The good clear air whirled through the
openings, reviving the girl.

"Keep your eyes open, and that revolver ready. Now is the time. Pretend
to sleep."

Shirley had drawn his own automatic by this time, and he realized that
the machine was slowing down. The chauffeur, as they passed a walk
light, looked back, observing that the two were apparently unconscious.
He slowed down still more, and tooted his horn three times. A large
touring car passed them, to stop some distance ahead. Then