Had
he been in league with them, executing a flank movement to divert
our attention? Or had it all been pure chance?
"Well?" demanded Andrews.
"Well?" replied Dana.
Kennedy said nothing, and I felt that, with our capture, the
mystery seemed to have deepened rather than cleared.
As Andrews and Phelps faced each other, I noticed that the latter
was now and then endeavouring to cover his wrist, where the dog
had torn his coat sleeve.
"Are you hurt badly?" inquired Kennedy.
Dana said nothing, but backed away. Kennedy advanced, insisting on
looking at the wounds. As he looked he disclosed a semicircle of
marks.
"Not a dog bite," he whispered, turning to me and fumbling in his
pocket. "Besides, those marks are a couple of days old. They have
scabs on them."
He had pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper, and, unknown to
Phelps, was writing in the darkness. I leaned over. Near the
point, in the tube through which the point for writing was,
protruded a small accumulator and tiny electric lamp which threw a
little disc of light, so small that it could be hidden by the
hand, yet quite sufficient to guide Craig in moving the point of
his pencil for the proper formation of whatever he was recording
on the surface of the paper.
Pages:
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447