kitchen to the rear door.

The bolt jerked back, under the astonished eyes of the five guards who
had not yet realized precisely what the commotion was all about--and who
only saw a packet of papers waving in mid-air, a trickle of blood
appearing out of nothing, and a bolt banging open in its slot for no
reason whatever.

* * * * *

Thorn's fingers worked feverishly at the chain. But before he could
begin to get it undone, the guards had recovered from their surprise and
had joined the Arvanians who poured in from the dining room under Kori's
lead.

With a score of men crowding the kitchen, Thorn looped back in his
tracks like a hunted creature, and sought the cellar door. Four men he
upset, one after another, aided by the fact that his twisting body could
be only approximately placed by the papers and the wound.

Then Kori's hand swept through the air above the waving packet, to clamp
over Thorn's wrist.

With an effort--that bulged the muscles of that blacksmith's fore-arm of
his till it seemed they must burst through the film, Thorn whirled Kori
clear off his feet and sent him stumbling into the charge of three
guards. But in the meantime the cellar was barred to him by a double
line of men.

Fighting for his life--and, far more important, the existence of his
country--Thorn lashed out with his invisible right fist while his left
clutched the plans.

A score of men arrayed in a death struggle against one! But the odds
were not twenty to one. Not quite. The score could mark Thorn's general
whereabouts--but they could not see his flying right fist! That was an
invisible weapon that did incredible damage.

But if they could not see the fist to guard against it, they could see
the results of the fist's impacts. Here a nose suddenly crumpled and an
instant later gushed red. There a head was snapped back and up, while
its owner slowly sagged to the floor. And all the while the still
dripping wound and the packet of documents kept with devilish ingenuity
between the body of some swordless guard and the impatient blades of the
Arvanian nobles.

Almost, it seemed to Thorn, he would win free. Almost, it appeared to
the Arvanians, the unseen one would reach the big window near the
door--which the path of his wreckage indicated was his goal. But one of
the wildly swinging fists of a guard caught Thorn at last.

It landed on the glass cup over his right eye, cutting a perfect circle