A facsimile reprint of this work, with the original illustrations, has been published by Bold Ventures Press, and is available from the Vintage Library.

America faces certain doom as its citizens fall in screaming thousands before the noxious death vapors loosed upon them by the Green Hand. How can the SPIDER, harried and threatened by a hundred new and deadly perils, check the rising power of the next Dictator— and lay bare the scheming, criminal mind which seeks to enslave the nation?

CHAPTER ONE Death in the Snow

THE bearded fur trapper, snowshoeing through the still cold of the forest night, was muffled to his ears in a Mackinaw. He mushed out into a moon-white clearing, breath steaming from his nostrils. His pace was slow beneath the heavy pack on his back, but there was an alert watchfulness about his every movement. His feet were loose in the thongs of his snow-shoes as if he were prepared to shed them instantly. . .

From the blackness, a rifle spat. The bearded trapper jerked with the blow of the lead. He threw high his hands, pitched face down in the knee-deep snow. His feet flew up with the force of his fall, kicked clear of the shoes, flopped again. After that he did not move. In all the world nothing moved; nothing disturbed the black silence of the forest.

The snow, which had been threatening for hours, began to drift down, a few uncertain white flecks in the blackness. It thickened rapidly, made a soft hissing sound. The moon thrust a frightened face between the clouds. Its pale light glinted on metal, a rifle in the edge of the dark woods. Distantly a wolf howled.

For five minutes that was all, then came that glint of metal again, as the rifle moved. It was followed by sound— as stealthy feet whispered over the snow. A black shadow detached itself from the darker shadows of the trees and crept forward.

It was a man, a short man, with shoulders like an ape, terminating in long arms. A rifle was in the hands, half raised, ready to spit leaden death.

The man jerked to a halt. The rifle snapped to his shoulder— and the dead man in the snow moved!

He hurled sideways, rolling, and flame spat from his hand. The rifle spoke, too, and a fluff of white snow spumed into the air where a moment before the trapper had lain. The trapper jerked to his knees. His pistol barked again, lancing fire into the blackness.

The rifle seemed frozen in the gunman's hands. He stood with it pressed against his shoulder as rigidly unmoving as one of those black trunks behind him. Then stiffly he toppled, arms jerking upward. The rifle turned a slow somersault, struck muzzle down. It stood straight an instant, then settled out of sight in the snow. The rifleman lay on his face, arms thrown out in the last surrender of death.

The trapper got slowly to his feet. With his left hand he wiped the coldness of the snow from his face.

Teeth gleamed amid his black beard. It was well that he had expected some such attack as this, well that he had wadded his pack with a thick pad of bullet-proof raw silk. He walked forward, automatic still ready in his fist. He moved cautiously, yet with speed. Swiftly he bent over the woodsman, rolled him, found that he was dead, a bullet between the eyes.

Then the trapper did a curious thing. He slid his hand beneath his mackinaw and pulled out a small cigarette lighter of platinum and black enamel, such as surely no trapper ever carried before. But he did not snap flame to it. A thin smile distorted his fine lips that the black beard disguised, as he detached the base of the lighter and, bending over, pressed the lighter itself to the forehead of the man he had killed.

And when he had removed that platinum toy, there remained upon the forehead of his victim, a small seal of rich vermilion— the ugly, hairy seal of the Spider!

RICHARD WENTWORTH— for the trapper was he, though none of his society friends would have recognized the millionaire clubman beneath the crude exterior of his faultless disguise— smiled thinly. Would these backwoodsmen, he wondered, recognize his calling card— that tiny red seal which marked the Spider's crusades against the Underworld? He was inclined to think they would. For it was known throughout the Underworlds and the police bureaus of a dozen countries as the signature of a man whose life was devoted to a long-drawn battle against those super criminals before whom the police themselves seemed helpless.

Here in the North Michigan woods, he was taking up that battle again, this time against a menace that threatened not a city, not a state, but the entire nation— perhaps every civilized power in the world!

Wentworth bent swiftly again and went through the man's pockets. They carried the usual paraphernalia of waterproof match case, compass, pipe and tobacco. But they carried also a letter. Wentworth flashed on it the beam of a small pencil light. The envelope bore the date of Loveland, Michigan. And the letter read:

Enclosed is five thousand, as agreed. Good work. Go ahead as planned.

The letter was unsigned. Five thousand dollars to a lumberjack! A backwoodsman who tried, with foolish confidence, to kill the Spider! Wentworth's smile vanished. The shaggy brows that disguised his own were drawn down heavily above gray eyes. He replaced in the man's pockets everything except the letter, ran back to his snow shoes. He toed into them and mushed on with frantic haste.

He knew from this attack that he could not be far from a certain camp which was, to any casual eye, the grouped cabins of honest lumbermen. He knew that two miles northwest of

that camp would be the cabin in which Professor Henry Cather was held prisoner.

Cresting the lazy roll of a hill, he paused and peered ahead through the blackness of the night polka-dotted with snow. A small wind creaked cold tree branches, brought him a whiff of woodsmoke. Yellow windows showed warmly through thick beeches.

Wentworth retreated swiftly from the ridge, made a wide circle about the camp, tugged out his compass and struck out northeast, moving with undiminished speed. His mouth was grim. If only Professor Cather were still alive . . . but the man's letter, a piteous and fearful cry for help, had been long in reaching him.

Wentworth carried an indelible mental picture of the letter in Professor Cather's queer, crabbed hand. It had been written with invisible ink across an innocent-appearing order for chemicals sent to Professor Brownlee, Wentworth's intimate friend. Brownlee, puzzled to know why his friend should have ordered chemicals through him, had presented the order to Wentworth. And Wentworth's swift mind had seized on the answer. Followed a series of tests, and finally the writing hidden beneath that apparently innocuous order had come through.

Professor Cather's letter— it should have been written in letters of blood— had been startling:/ have made a discovery that will make its possessor ruler ofthe world! This is no exaggeration, but a cold, scientific fact.

/ wish /had died before / discovered it.

A group of men engaged me, through one named George Scott, to do some secret work on synthetic perfumes. I thought it strange when they stipulated the work must be done in an isolated laboratory far north in the Michigan woods. But, as you know, I've long wanted to do that kind of work, and I jumped at the chance.

I worked for several weeks before I found out the nature of the thing these men wanted done. Then, by torture, they forced me to do their will. I am a prisoner in a cabin about twenty miles northeast of Wacomchic, Michigan.

There is a camp on the Wacomchic River which is apparently made up of lumbermen, but actually is filled with criminals of the most ruthless type. My cabin is two miles northeast of that camp.

In God's name, rescue me, before I am forced to loose this horrible destroyer I have discovered upon the world. I have longed to kill myself before this should be forced upon me, but...The letter had ended abruptly, as if the professor had been interrupted in his message of terrible portent. A discovery that would make its possessor ruler of the world.... horrible destroyer.... A band of criminals of the most ruthless type!

No wonder Wentworth had raced half across the continent in a frantic effort to save Professor Cather— and to wrest his dread secret from the criminal hands which might loose his destroyer upon the world!

CHAPTER TWO The Professor's Secret

WENTWORTH'S swinging progress through the deepening snow was made at a killing pace. Only a man of his superb endurance and iron will could have put on such a burst of speed at the end of hours of mushing through knee-deep snow.

His keen eyes, sharply gray beneath the shaggy false brows, swept the woods ahead. He should be close now to Professor Cather's cabin. Probably it was on the crest of the next hill, there where the hemlocks showed black against the sky. But there were no lights to indicate its exact position. Wentworth leaned back on the heels of his snow-shoes, skated down the hill. He hurdled a frozen stream whose black waters gurgled beneath the ice, battled through thick beeches on its brink, and made his way doggedly up a steep grade. He peered ahead anxiously, moon and snow glisten providing a ghostly light.

Just below the crest of the hill the dense growth of trees stopped abruptly. Moonlight streamed into the clearing beyond and, as Wentworth raced onward, breath streaming from his nostrils; he made out the glint of windows and a low log cabin, black against the snow.

Eager as he was to reach the building, he stopped and reconnoitered. About him nothing moved. The silence was absolute. He pushed on slowly, halted in the shadows of the trees and scrutinized the cabin, then made a swift but careful circuit of the clearing.

The new fallen snow showed no trace of human passage. The whiteness before the door was unbroken. Wentworth's thinned lips grew hard. If Cather still were here, he had not left the cabin for hours.

Wentworth slid his shoulders from the straps of his pack, toed out of his snowshoes and, a flitting shadow among shadows, crept toward the rear of the cabin. There was a lean-to there. Its slanting roof would cover firewood and supplies. Wentworth touched its rough surface, found a small opening between logs. He stooped and peered inside. All was darkness.

He drew out his pencil light and stabbed a small knifelike ray into the black interior. Stacked wood, supplies hung upon pegs, a door that swung agape into the room beyond. The light swept on, discovered in the main part of the cabin a small rusted stove, a long bench with a glittering array of test tubes and bottles.

This, then, was Professor Cather's cabin. But within it was no sound, no breath of life.

Wentworth's eyes were bitter. He switched off the light, circled rapidly to the door, pounded on it. The wind moaned about the eaves. A loose slab on the roof rattled. The hunger howl of a wolf rose from a nearby thicket. Within, all was silence.

Wentworth reached out his mittened hand and caught the latchstring. Then he paused, and a thin smile twisted his mouth. He stepped behind the protection of the thick log wall, pulled the latch and kicked the door inward, jerking his foot instantly to safety.

The door banged inward. But no gun crashed out; no leaden death charge spat from the darkness. Instead, there came a fragile tinkling as of thin glass breaking.

Wentworth ran from that door as from the gibbering specter of death itself!

THE wind was from behind the cabin, and Wentworth's flight was a swift curve to windward.

On the side of the cabin, at a distance of fifty feet, he halted. Groping through the snow, he found a broken tree branch. He hurled it through the cabin window, crashing it inward. He circled behind the cabin to its other side and did the same. Then he returned, sat upon his pack and waited.

Call his swift flight a hunch; call it intuition. Either would be right— for these are both the swift subconscious alignment of thoughts too rapid for deliberate mental processes. Wentworth had cultivated such thought flashes. His mind was capable of incredibly quick decisions, and action flowed from them almost before the thought was conceived. Such was Wentworth's weapon against the UnderworId, his split-second speed of thought, his ability to think ahead of his enemies, to foresee their plots and forestall them.

And that power had served him well once more. Professor Cather, a specialist in gaseous chemistry, had been abducted and forced to work upon some secret process. Wentworth, fearing a trap, had heard glass tinkle. These facts had instantly marshaled themselves, and he had fled up wind. Now he waited.

Above him the hemlocks moaned with the wind. It swept through those broken cabin windows, through the

wide open entrance. As Wentworth watched, a cloud of greenish vapor poked tenuous fingers out through the door. They thickened rapidly, became heavy. They spread, denser than smoke, and writhed close to the surface of the snow. The vapor became a vast, snake-like cloud that filled the small clearing and filtered in among the trees.

Wentworth came slowly to his feet, hands clenched into fists at his side. That gas was like some monster of another, hideous world, a monster creeping out to harry and destroy. There was something horrible about the mere sight of its viscous coils.

He knew that only his swift, instantaneous flight had saved him.

It was an hour later, an hour of impatient waiting, of striding up and down in the black forest to fight the teeth of the cold, before Wentworth dared to enter the cabin. And even then he went cautiously, breathing lightly, sniffing for any vagrant traces of the gas that might lurk there. But the cabin was fresh and sharp as the wind that swept through the forest.

WENTWORTH returned for his pack, stuffed cloth into the broken window panes, closed the door and built a fire in the stove. He lighted a lantern and turned it low.

Then, in a bunk against the wall, he rigged a dummy. One window he covered entirely. In the other he left some of the glass fragments exposed. Through it, the dummy would be visible. Then Wentworth threw down a blanket against the wall, where it could not be seen from the window, and stretched out at full length.

He knew the assassin he had slain would not have worked alone. Nor would men with so horrible, so powerful and valuable a secret as this gas be satisfied to trust the cabin trap to remove an interloper. They would want to make sure, especially— Wentworth's mouth corners lifted wryly— especially if they found their dead comrade, with the Spider's dread seal, red as blood, upon his forehead.

Wentworth feared that the Professor, his usefulness ended, had been done away with. And the thought of that cold-blooded murder set the fires of a slow wrath burning within him. Who these criminals were, or what their purpose, the Spider did not know. But the Spider would learn.

He knew now only that the gas was poisonous and that it had vast power of expansion. But he respected Professor Cather, and if the Professor said his new discovery was so powerful that its possessor could conquer the world, there was full justification for that claim.

Wentworth could visualize the vast menace that such a gas could become in the hands of an unscrupulous organization, could guess at the horror, the death and the suffering it could cause.

His own course now lay clear before him. He could not invade the camp behind him singlehanded to search for the leader. He must capture whatever member of the gang came to make sure of his death. And he must learn through him the Professor's fate and the purpose of his organization.

For a long while Wentworth lay upon the blanket, waiting. Sleep gnawed at him. The vast symphony of the murmuring wind lulled his senses. The fatigue of the day's trek through the forest weighted his eyelids. And at long last, wearily, they closed::::

It was perhaps five minutes later that a new sound pierced the muted music of the wind. It was the squeaking whisper of boots upon the snow, stealthy footsteps that advanced slowly toward the cabin and its sleeping occupant.

Wentworth did not stir beneath the blanket. He lay as motionless as that dummy he had rigged upon the bunk. The footsteps halted, and a dark blur showed against the window pane, rose slowly until a man's gleaming eyes peered into the room.

FOR a full minute the man stared into the room, then, deliberately, he began to thrust inward the cloth that had been stuffed into the broken pane. It fell soundlessly to the floor and behind it, a cold wind filtered into the room. The air accomplished what the footsteps had not. It aroused Wentworth. But he did not sit up suddenly, did not move at all. He merely opened his eyes and, peering at the window, understood.

Now he moved quietly, rose to his feet. Even as he stood erect, a bare hairy hand thrust through the broken window. Between thumb and forefinger it held gingerly a small capsule, and Wentworth knew instantly what threatened. This was more of that horrible potent gas Professor Cather had invented. If those fingers opened, if that capsule broke, Wentworth was doomed! Even his speed could not get him across the room and out into the open before its swift- spreading death overtook him.

Even as Wentworth thought these things, the fingers opened; the capsule of deadly gas began its swift

descent. If it struck the floor . . . Wentworth's hand shot out, he caught the capsule in midair on his palm. As he dropped it into his pocket, his other hand seized the man's wrist. A muffled curse sounded outside the window.

Wentworth yanked on the wrist, jerked the man savagely against the building wall. His free fist flashed through the broken pane, slammed full into the evil face.

Frightened oaths poured from the man, but he did not strike back. Instead he struggled frantically to escape. Wentworth struck again, and felt the man's weight sag against the arm he held. He let go and, darting to the door, raced swiftly about to the window. The man was stretched unconscious upon the snow.

It was the work of an instant to twist him over onto his face, strap his hands with a belt and drag him into the cabin. Once inside, Wentworth covered the one bare window and dumped his prisoner down upon a chair. He roped him upright and lighted the lantern.

Upon a rough table beside the unconscious man, he placed the fragile capsule of poison gas. Then he leaned forward and slapped his prisoner heavily in the face. Three times he hit before the man moaned and opened bleary eyes. Wentworth stepped back then and allowed him to regain full control of his senses. The man's eyes grew pinched with fright. They shot about the cabin, took in the dummy on the couch, the spread blanket beside the window. They shot back to Wentworth's face.

“Yes,” said Wentworth softly, “that was the way I did it. I killed your friend tonight. I did that with a bullet. Now I am anxious to see what will happen if I break that little glass capsule you tried to drop into the cabin.”

The man's gaze swept to the capsule. His eyes widened. He seemed unable to tear them away from that tiny vial of death. Wentworth took a step nearer, raised his clenched fist above the capsule as if to smash it. “No,” the man gasped, “No!” His voice was hoarse with fear, scarcely intelligible.

“Why not?” asked Wentworth softly.

The man's eyes were still riveted on the capsule. “It's death,” he got out. “It'd kill you, too!”

Wentworth pretended scorn. “What! That little thing?”

He picked it up with apparent carelessness, held it on his palm.

“For God's sake— be careful!” his prisoner gasped.

WENTWORTH rolled the capsule about on his palm. His prisoner strained at his ropes, eyes starting, muscles swelling in his shoulders.

“You damn fool!” he roared. “Put the thing down. You'll kill us both!”

Wentworth put the capsule slowly back on the table.

“I could tie a rope to this table,” he said, “and go outside and pull over the table. That would tell me what was in this little piece of glass.” He moved across the room, and the man's eyes followed fearfully. Wentworth picked up a length of rope from his pack, and came slowly back, fingering it.

“I'll tell you what's in it,” the man said hoarsely. “It's gas. That's what it is, poison gas!”

“So what?”

“It'll kill us, I tell you!”

Wentworth stooped and began tying the rope to a table leg. “Where did you get it?”

“Stop!” the man pleaded. “I told you I'd talk.” Wentworth's voice was hard. “Then talk fast. Where did you get it?”

The man's eyes watched as Wentworth deliberately continued tying the rope.

“McCarthy gave it to me.”

“Who's McCarthy?”

“Straw boss at the lumber camp.”

Wentworth, ever alert, narrowed his eyes, listening. By no other movement did he betray that the slight crunch of a foot step in the snow outside had caught his ear. He went on, calmly tying the rope.

“You're not talking fast enough,” he said coldly, straightening as he finished his task. He walked toward the door with the free end of the rope.

“Wait!” the man demanded. “I'll talk! McCarthy got it from the guy that used to live in this cabin. A funny old duck with thick glasses. McCarthy and the guy you killed brought me over here with them and they got a lot of papers and some capsules like this from here. Then they bumped this guy— ”

Wentworth whirled. His mouth was smiling, but it was not a nice smile. “So they killed him, did they?”

“Yeah, they killed him. Like I'm tell— ”

The man's eyes fixed on Wentworth's face. His words choked in his throat. He swallowed audibly. “Cripes, Mister, they did it, not me!”

Wentworth had not moved forward, and his expression had not changed except for his smile. “Oh, they did it. And I suppose you think that lets you out?”

His prisoner licked dry lips. “Listen, Mister. I'm talking, and— ”

“Keep on talking,” Wentworth ordered. “Well, they took this stuff and went back to camp. They planted this old duck down in the valley there. And that's all I know— except that we got orders to kill anybody that comes anywhere near here.”

“Where's McCarthy now?” Wentworth asked slowly.

The man shook his head. “I don't know.” Wentworth tightened the rope and took a step backward toward the door. “Where's McCarthy?”

“Cripes, Mister, I tell you I don't know. He left the camp, and— ”

Wentworth sprang to the door, yanked it open. A man blundered in, sprawling full length on the floor. Wentworth snatched out a gun.

“So you don't know where McCarthy is?” he said. “Is this McCarthy?”

IF FRIGHT had been on the prisoner's face before, there now was absolute terror. His lips turned pale and stammered with words that would not come out. His throat became corded. His face seemed to grow thinner. Finally words gurgled out: “He made me, McCarthy. He made me tell!”

The man on the floor rolled over slowly. He was small and had a pointed, thin face.

“Get up, McCarthy,” Wentworth ordered. McCarthy got up with a rush. He grabbed the rope that Wentworth held and attempted to yank him off balance. The table crashed to the floor, and the bound man screamed. It was a scream of utter terror. McCarthy whirled toward him, startled.

The thick oily gas already was coiling up from the smashed capsule on the floor!

Wentworth plunged outward into the night, raced off at an angle across the wind. Behind him another scream began. A mingled scream of two men in terrible fear. But even as that two-voiced scream began, it ended— ended in a choking gasp that had lost all semblance of human voice.

Wentworth, shivering as he paced back and forth to keep himself warm, cursed bitterly under his breath. Two men who might have helped him had committed unintentional suicide. Of the criminal organization— whatever its nature— three now were dead, the killer with the rifle, the man with the capsule, and McCarthy. But Wentworth knew the plot would not stop there. That letter from Michigan sending funds, the letter he had found on the first man he had killed, proved that.

The Professor was avenged. Three of the criminals had paid the penalty. But the Spider's work was just begun. Behind these men, like a cloud of the greenish hell vapor that killed so horribly, loomed the figure of some criminal master.

Wentworth stood on belligerently straddled legs, fists clenched at his sides, narrow, determined eyes fastened on the silent cabin. Here was a menace that might wipe out the entire nation, that might give world domination to a genius of crime! And only the Spider knew; only the Spider, working in the dark, could battle this fearful threat.

Wentworth shook his clenched fist at the stars. The Spider would battle. Let the Underworld beware!

EMPIRE OF DOOM

CHAPTER THREE The Flesh Eater

IT WAS an hour before Wentworth dared enter the cabin, an hour of fighting cold, an hour of futile groping for the reasons behind this ugly business of the green death gas. Finally striding back to the cabin, he stared down at the two men who had died in their own trap.

Their bodies were contorted as if deformed in some torture racks. The agony of that gas, Wentworth realized, must be unbelievable! Their faces were twisted, too, pulled out of all human resemblance by those few seconds of awful pain that they had endured. But the thing that stiffened Wentworth with horror, that sent a cold ripple of apprehension creeping slowly down his spine was the color of those faces. The gas had eaten huge areas of the flesh completely away, and what remained was a sickly greenish hue!

Narrow-eyed, with an inward shrinking that was strange to him, Wentworth bent and affixed his Spider's seal upon the brow of each. The ugly, hairy legged spot of red stood out vividly on the greenish flesh.

Then, working methodically, he made a careful search of the two men. Their clothing, eaten by gas, ripped in his hands, revealing the skin below, green and splotched, with wide areas of red where the gas had eaten of human flesh! His search yielded nothing. These men had been more careful.

Wentworth wasted no more time upon the cabin. His swift search of the Professor's equipment had revealed no clue to the gas. Even the chemical tubes and laboratory equipment had been smashed by the men who had murdered him.

Wentworth packed methodically, drew on coat and mittens and, with rifle ready in the crotch of his arm, automatic in his pocket, swung out into the night.

The wind had died now, and the cold was still and penetrating. No wolf howled in the distance. It was as if the bony hand of death lay heavily over the entire north woods. Wentworth's snow shoes seemed dangerously noisy, crunching across the drifts.

He wove his swift way down the hill, across the frozen stream, with its muffled gurgle, back over the hills toward the lumber camp. It was after midnight, and cresting the last rise, he found the lumber camp in darkness, save for one window in a central cabin, where a narrow line of yellow lamp light squeezed out.

The trail was hard packed, and Wentworth slid off the snow shoes, hung them on the pack upon his back, and took a firmer hold upon his rifle. He strode on, silently now in mocassined boots, keeping carefully to the shadows. The camp seemed asleep. Yet twice tonight death had struck at him from no more dangerous appearing settings. He moved with alert watchfulness.

He rounded the cabin from which light gleamed and peered cautiously through a chink at its back.

A man crouched over a rough table, his head, with red hair that bristled like wire, bent low. His face, distorted by a scar that had twisted the mouth, frowned in concentration.

A sheaf of papers quivered, in the grip of one corded, heavy hand. He picked up a cigar stub from the table edge, puffed twice, blowing out a boiling cloud of blue smoke. He flung it from him, sprang up, a man well over six feet, wide in the shoulders and thick of chest. He threw the papers down upon the table, paced three turns back and forth across the floor, quick striding, light of foot for a man of his size. He returned to the table, stood staring down, sat again and picked up the papers.

A smile wrenched Wentworth's lips. This looked promising. He circled the building, found the door latched. He took off his pack for an instant and adjusted a small, queerly shaped pistol within it, then thrust it back into the pack. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, dropped his right hand into his coat pocket, and knocked.

WITHIN, all sound, all movement, ceased. There was silence for two full minutes. Then heavy feet moved lightly to the door. There was a fumbling, and it was wrenched wide. Yellow lamp light streamed into Wentworth's face. For an instant, staring, the man's eyes widened, then they narrowed slightly.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Wentworth's face was bland; his smile was pleasant. “A place to sleep,” he said. He moved confidently forward. The man continued to stare with unwavering, bright eyes, blocking his path. Then he stepped aside and flung a hand in a welcoming gesture.

“Sure, sure. Come in,” he boomed.

Wentworth strolled casually past him, unshouldering his pack and letting it slide to the floor. Hard metal jabbed into the small of his back.

“Lift them,” the man bit out.

Wentworth raised his hands slowly.

“Two steps ahead and turn.”

Wentworth did that, too, putting bewilderment on his face, wrinkling the shaggy brows that hid his own, compressing his bearded lips. That metal jabbing his back had been a pistol. It was leveled at him now.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded. “A guy asks for a place to sleep, and you pull a shooting iron on him.”

A smile twisted his captor's scar-ugly mouth, showed his teeth snarlingly. “It was kind of you to give yourself up,” he said. “I sent two men after you. Did you kill them, too?”

Wentworth's frown increased.

“What the hell you talking about?” “Just this.” The big man's voice grew soft. “You came by the camp this afternoon late and killed a guard thrown out to protect our property. Now, I suppose, you have killed the two men I sent after you, Mr. Spider.!”

Wentworth shook his head slowly.

“I don't know what you're driving at,” he said. “I just mushed in from Wacomchic.''

The big man laughed. “Think you can fool George Scott, do you? Well . . .”

Wentworth, listening to the man, felt the white thin scar on his right temple throb with anger. George Scott was the man the Professor's letter had named as hiring him for the criminal's horror work, and this was George Scott. Wentworth forced his eyes to remain puzzled, despite the white anger, that glowed behind them. The man was still talking.

“You are a fool, Spider,” he said. “I read about you and your big doings in the city. And I thought you were kinda smart. But any guy that goes around killing in the north woods and signs his name to what he does, is headed straight for the end of a rope.” Scott smiled again. “We run our own law up here. I think the boys will be glad to get their hands on the man who killed their campmates.”

Lynch law, that was what this George Scott threatened, and Wentworth did not doubt the man could fulfill his threat. Even if the entire camp was not in with him on the murder of the Professor, there could be no doubt the men would hang him if Scott accused him of the death of their comrades.

WENTWORTH allowed his face to show fear. He stammered. “I don't know what you mean by this Spider stuff. I'm just a trapper, mushing north like I said. My name is Joe Koch.”

“Yeah? Well, Joe Koch, or Spider, you hang in the morning.”

Wentworth shook his head frantically. “No, no!” he babbled. He took a half pace forward.

Scott thrust forward the gun. “Get back there,” he ordered.

Wentworth retreated, waving his hands in erratic gestures. “But, listen, I tell you— ”

Crack!

A gun exploded behind Scott. Wentworth's pack leaped on the floor, and the big man whirled, snapping a shot blindly at the sound. Instantly Wentworth was upon his back. His knees dug into Scott's loins. His left arm crooked about his throat. The man whirled, tearing at that strangling arm. He flung up the gun, pointing it backward over his shoulder. Wentworth seized the wrist with his free hand. Scott staggered, twisting his head, lungs pumping for breath. Wentworth strained his arm tighter about the man's throat.

Muffled by thick walls, he could hear men shouting, calling back and forth from other cabins. Scott flung himself backward, trying to crush Wentworth against the floor. They crashed down heavily, but Wentworth's hold did not weaken. It was Scott's last effort. The fight left him, and he went limp in Wentworth's grip.

Wentworth sprang to the table, jerked open a drawer, snatched the papers that cluttered it and thrust them into his pocket. He crossed back to Scott, doused him with water from a bucket on a bench. The shouts of the men were nearer now. And heavy feet were pounding on the beaten snow.

Scott moaned, tossed his arms. Wentworth took his gun and leveled it at him, stepped back three paces. Scott came to with a rush, sprang to his feet and stood glowering, eyes bloodshot with rage.

“Clever, eh?” he said hoarsely, hand massaging his throat. “It won't get you anywhere. Mr. Spider. You can't get away.”

Wentworth smiled. “I thought you might prove stubborn and planted a blank pistol in my pack, with a time device to discharge it. I did that just before I came in. You may have noticed I got rid of the pack quickly.” A man's fist pounded on the door.

“That's the hangman!” said Scott. “We'll hold that little necktie party right now instead of waiting till morning.”

Wentworth shook his head slowly, still smiling.

“I'm afraid not, Scott. You're going to tell these men your gun went off accidentally while you were cleaning it. And then you and I are going to take a little walk. And if anyone follows, you won't return!”

Scott stared into Wentworth's calm face, and his own stiffened slowly. His cheeks blanched.

The fist pounded at the door again. “You all right, Scott?” a voice shouted.

Wentworth raised his pistol, aimed it between Scott's eyes. The smile on his mouth became cold; his eyes burned.

“I'd just as soon kill you now,” he said softly. “I think my gun can persuade the man at the door.”

“Why, you— ”

Scott's voice began with a threat, but died in his throat. Scott's blue eyes widened slowly. He became even paler. He retreated a step.

“You'd do it,” he said, hoarsely. ‘You'd shoot me, even if I didn't have a gun.”

WENTWORTH'S smile was like a knife. “Was Professor Cather armed when your men killed him?”

“Hey, Scott,” the man outside shouted again. “Are you all right? If you don't answer pretty quick, I'm goin' to bust in the door.”

“What would you say,” Wentworth asked Scott, gently. “Are you all right?” As he spoke, he raised the gun a fraction of an inch, so that it pointed at Scott's forehead. Scott opened his mouth, tried twice to speak before he got out words.

“Sure, sure, I'm all right,” he called hoarsely. “I was just cleaning my gun and it went off. Get the hell back to bed.”

The men grumbled for a moment longer outside, voices rumbling in the night. “We want to see you,

Scott,” one called. “Come on, open up the door a minute.”

Wentworth nodded slowly and put the gun in his coat pocket, its muzzle still pointed toward Scott. “I can shoot this way, too,” he said.

Scott nodded, fright still in his face. For death had stared at him from the eyes of this bearded man who smiled so coldly behind the black muzzle of a gun.

Scott moved jerkily to the door, jerked it open and stood spraddle legged, with fists clenched. “I said, get the hell to bed,” he told the men grouped there. They stared past him, looking at Wentworth curiously.

Then, without warning, a rifle blazed from the blackness. Within the cabin a pistol cracked, and the lantern smashed.

Wentworth raised up slowly. He had not been hit. He had seen the glint of the rifle barrel an instant before the shot and flung himself to the floor. No one was visible in the doorway now. Scott had fled at the first distraction, and the other men had gone into hiding. But Wentworth knew that the instant he showed in the doorway, a half dozen rifles would pour hot lead into his body. Well, he had a remedy for that.

His hand slid beneath his arm to the kit the Spider always carried, a compact collection of chromium steel tools and various little devices he had found useful in his battle against the Underworld. He slipped from it now two small vials whose liquids were safe to carry, but which, mixed together, made a powerful explosive— one of the little devices that Professor Brownlee had contrived for him.

Wentworth took out Scott's revolver, plugged an end of the barrel with a cigarette and poured in the liquids. Then he thrust in a bit of fuse and lighting it hurled the gun at another nearby cabin. Snatching his rifle, he sprang instantly upon a bunk and punched aside some roof slabs.

The spluttering fuse made a spiral of sparks as it flew through the air. Behind Wentworth there were hoarse cries, the shadows of men fleeing. He climbed the wall and straddled its top, as a terrific blast ripped the night.

White and red fire blossomed in the blackness. Trees and frozen earth stood out vividly, revealed as if by the blue-white glare of lightning. Darkness dropped its curtain again, as Wentworth flung to the earth and fled

into the shadows of the forest.

YET he did not run far. He circled back, looking for Scott. But nowhere, among the figures that ran about the camp, like ants beneath an overturned stone, could he spot the tall hunch-shouldered figure of their leader. The very aimlessness with which they dashed about indicated that their leader was not among them.

At last Wentworth struck off into the forest, seeking him on the trail to Wacomchic. As he mushed swiftly onward, leaving behind the turmoil of a disrupted camp, he heard a motor roar out.

It was at least half a mile away, but the clear sharp air brought the machine gun chatter of its mighty cylinders to him clearly. Wentworth knew it at once for what is was— an airplane engine being warmed to life! He broke into a plunging run. It was toiling, heavy work. He had left pack and snowshoes behind, and the snow was deep. He had small hope of reaching the plane in time, but there was a chance. The woods were as black as if soot clogged the air. Underbrush caught at his feet. Drooping hemlock branches sliced his face.

Still Wentworth raced on. The sound of his swift passage drowned out for the moment the song of the motor. Then that roar deepened, made itself heard even above the crashing of underbrush. And Wentworth, cresting a hill, made out the dark blur of the plane sliding swiftly over the smooth surface of a frozen lake.

He snatched his rifle from his shoulder, dropped to a knee in the snow and lined the sights on the plane, already lifting from the ice.

But he did not fire. Instead, he slowly lowered the rifle, straightened and slung it over his shoulder. His almost uncanny accuracy, bred of years of practice and steady nerves, might easily halt Scott in his escape.

But— the Spider smiled— there were other uses for Scott. In the end, he would die. But meantime, that heavy, redheaded figure would be hard to conceal. And Wentworth knew where to search for it. He would need some such lead when he reached Loveland, Michigan, whence the letter had come.

Wentworth turned his back on the camp in the woods and mushed steadily southward, toward Wacomchic— and his battle with the fearful specter of the green death gas.

CHAPTER FOUR The Green Hand

WENTWORTH, flying to Loveland, looked up as the hum of the cabin plane's motors lifted two full notes. The speed diminished, the altimeter needle swung slowly downward, one thousand— nine hundred— eight. He peered out the window. High office buildings and broad thoroughfares lay on the near horizon—

Loveland. Beneath the plane were the crossed runways of an airport.

Wentworth turned back to the papers in his lap, those he had seized from Scott. They were not, as he had hoped, the formula for the professor's gas. They were covered with figures, apparently estimates of fabulous wealth. In themselves they were meaningless, but taken with his knowledge that the gas had fallen into criminal hands, they were staggering. It was clear this was the loot the criminals hoped to obtain. And it totaled billions!

How many hundreds were to die, writhing with the agony of the flesh-eating gas, so that the gang might grasp this wealth? Wentworth's eyes were frigid pools of gray ice. Below him lay the city from which the letter he had found on his first victim had come. Somewhere within that city of half a million people lay his only clue— the hulking, red-headed figure, the man called Scott.

The plane circled in a steep bank. The motors boomed an instant, and the ship slid into a smooth landing, whirled and jockeyed up to the administration building. Wentworth left hurriedly, signaled a cab.

“Police headquarters,” he ordered.

At the end of half an hour, Wentworth was ushered into the square, bright office of Police Commissioner Harry Battleson, a short, dynamic figure behind a shining desk that seemed yards wide. Wentworth leaned across it to grasp his hand.

“You got my telegram?” he said.

Commissioner Battleson nodded a head, heavy out of all proportion to his size, his blond hair glistening.

“Yes,” he said, “but no one answering the description of this George Scott landed here, either before or after we got your wire,” Battleson gestured with a fat, short-fingered hand. “Sit down, and tell me what it's all about.”

Wentworth drew up a chair, offering Battleson a cigarette. The man jerked his head in the negative, fished out a black, fat cigar.

Wentworth's eyes, watching, were casual, but they summed the man up swiftly. He told him briefly of the disappearance of Professor Cather and of his poison, told him of the letter from Loveland and the need to find George Scott.

“Sooner or later,” he concluded, “Scott will show here. If we could get hold of him— ”

The cigar barrel-rolled across Battleson's lips, “If he shows, he'll be picked up.”

Wentworth nodded and stood. “The Grandleigh is your best hotel, isn't it?”

“Going to be there, eh?” Battleson asked. He got to his feet and strode jerkily around the desk. His heels made a lot of noise. Wentworth saw that they were an inch high.

“I'm Sure, Chief,” he said, “that with you on the job, I'll get action.”

Battleson beamed. “That you will, Mr. Wentworth,” he said. The phone buzzer called him to his shining, speckless desk. He picked up the receiver with a frown and made his voice gruff and deep.

“Yeah?” He listened and his face creased in a smile; his head nodded. “Yes, Mr. Love, what can I do for you?... A threat, eh?... Well, we can take care of those boys. Sure, I'll be right up... Ten minutes.”

He slapped up the receiver, jerked about. “That was Jonathan Love,” he announced in tones he might have used to say, “That was the President of the United States.”

Wentworth raised his brows. “Love is about the wealthiest man in the country, isn't he?”

Battleson strode across to his hat, tugged it down on his brow, whirled. All his movements were exaggerated, “Not only that,” he boomed out. “He's the greatest man in the country! Runs half a dozen industries. Has thousands on his payrolls. No bigger man in the country than Jonathan Love!”

Wentworth inspected the end of his cigarette. “And he's been threatened?”

Battleson threw out his hand with a sharp gesture. “He's always being threatened. It doesn't mean a thing.”

Wentworth tossed the cigarette into a tray. “And yet, Love seems worried.”

“I'll take care of that.” Battleson frowned. “I'm sure you will,” Wentworth was deferential. “But it's just possible there is some tie-up between this business and the case I'm interested in. I wonder if you'll let me go along?”

“Impossible,” Battleson barked, shaking his massive head.

Wentworth was casual “I don't know whether it makes any difference,” he said, “but I am a lieutenant in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and this sounds as if it might come under my jurisdiction also. Would you care to see my credentials?”

Battleson stared with surprise-widened eyes. “Why didn't you say so?” he demanded. “Come on. Told Mr. Love I'd be there in ten minutes. Always do what I say I will.”

Wentworth veiled laughing eyes with lowered lids. “It would never do to keep the great Jonathan Love waiting,” he agreed.

SO AS not to keep Jonathan Love waiting, Battleson's heavy touring car, siren screeching, ripped a hole through the city traffic, burned Love Boulevard westward at sixty-five, skidded with gravel-popping tires into a wide, tree-lined drive that wound through the kingly estate, past- uniformed guards to whom even the Chief was deferential, slid panting to a halt before the high- columned white portico of the Love mansion.

They got there in ten minutes, but they waited twenty in the rigid chairs of a stiffly formal reception room, before a murmuring secretary hush-hushed them into the presence of Love himself.

He rose at their entrance, an austere and a gaunt man with a face of gouged out furrows, and a ruff of white curly hair. His eyes were bright and he was grave and unsmiling— a thin man in gray against a background of quiet luxury.

“Thank you, Chief, for coming so promptly,” he said and turned inquiring eyes upon Wentworth. Battleson's voice boomed importantly. “This is Richard Wentworth, a lieutenant in the Secret Service,” he said. “The lieutenant had dropped by to see me and I took the liberty of bringing him along, since your case might come under his jurisdiction.”

Wentworth, unsmiling, shook hands. “It's the Bureau of Investigation,” he said, “not the Secret Service.” Love nodded. “Won't you gentlemen be seated? What I have to say will not take long.” He retired behind the expanse of a walnut desk that dwarfed even Battleson's and seated himself with dignity. He was like a king who had mounted his throne. He leaned back and pyramided thin, knotty fingers. Wentworth and Battleson sat in chairs the self-effacing secretary slid forward. Unobtrusively, the man placed a paper upon the desk before Love, then faded into the background.

“Usually,” Jonathan Love began, his voice didactic, “I ignore threatening letters. I have an ample bodyguard. My home and offices are well protected by alarm systems. But today I received a threat which I do not believe I can afford to ignore. It is a threat not against myself, but against my people. My workers.” Wentworth drew a cigarette, tapped it. Before he could light it, a manicured hand held a match for him. Wentworth turned his eyes upward to the bland, expressionless face of the secretary, nodded his thanks and turned back to Love. A frown wrinkled the man's high forehead, deepened the gouged-out furrows of his thin face.

“What they threaten is this,” he said and, leaning forward, looked at the paper upon his desk.

“It says: 'Unless you pay us two million dollars cash, we will destroy the entire town of Elkhorn. "Love looked at Wentworth beneath gray, shaggy brows. “Elkhorn is inhabited exclusively by my workmen. It is a model town, built about one of my steel factories. About five thousand men and their families.” He looked back to the letter. “We do not threaten,” he read on, “to destroy the factory or the town itself; we mean your skilled workers. Their entire families. Aren’t they worth more than two million to you? Have the money ready in bills not above a hundred dollars, old money, and wait for our next message. If you notify police, the town will be destroyed.”“The signature,” said Love, “apparently is made with a rubber stamp. It is a green hand.” WENTWORTH reached out his hand for the letter. It was neatly typewritten. “Royal portable,” he said. “Vogue type. There must be thousands of those in existence.”

He looked at the signature, the Green Hand. The hand depicted was a savage thing with a stubby, brutal thumb that seemed intended for wild battle, for gouging out men's eyes. Thumb and fingers were slightly bent with a bitter, corded tension, as if that violent hand clutched fiercely for some victim and Wentworth, staring

at that hand, feeling a chill of dread, knew that what they clutched would die, die cruelly and in agony!

Without a word, he passed the letter to Battleson. The Chief frowned, his massive face in concentration. “Nasty looking mit,” he muttered.

Wentworth looked directly at Love. “Are you going to pay?” he demanded. “The usual thing is to pretend to and try to snare the kidnappers when they come to collect the money.”

Love's mouth closed in a line as grim as the slot of a mail box. I will not even pretend to pay,” he said sharply. “I pay taxes. I demand that the government protect my men!”

Wentworth leaned forward; the cigarette spiraling thin blue smoke before his keen face. “Do you realize what that means, Mr. Love?”

“It means this,” rapped out Love, tapping his palm flat upon his desk at each phrase. “I will not yield an inch to these criminals. The people of this country have allowed themselves to become slaves to the Underworld by precisely that thing— yielding and compromising with crime. I— will— not— do— it!” Wentworth smiled slightly. “I want to tell you what brought me to Loveland,” he said, and he recited the circumstances of his search for the murderers of Professor Cather.

“This Green Hand is significant,” he concluded. “I have not the slightest doubt that the criminals who threaten to destroy Elkhorn possess this deadly gas; I think they are fully capable of wiping out this town as they threaten, despite all the armies in America.”

Love got slowly to his feet, leaned his weight upon his hands, so that his shoulders hunched, so that he seemed a great gaunt bird thrusting forward its predatory head.

“Then the United States government would better abdicate and turn the administration over to able hands!” he thundered. “I demand protection, and I intend to have it.”

“Even if it costs the lives of all the workers in Elkhorn, eh, Mr. Love?” Wentworth asked quietly.

When Love spoke again, he emphasized each word with a palm slapping upon the desk.

“Better five thousand men die, than that we yield one inch to these criminals!”

Wentworth stood.

“A noble sentiment, nobly expressed,” he said. “I hope your five thousand workers will appreciate it.” He turned and strode from the room.

CHAPTER FIVE A Blow at the Spider

WENTWORTH moved along the richly decorated hall with determined feet. He was leaving. There was no help in this man. Whatever Wentworth did to thwart the criminals, it was obvious he must do alone.

A suave voice behind him called: “Mr. Wentworth!”

Wentworth turned slowly to face the secretary. The man walked swiftly up to him, feet nearly noiseless, although he was a large man, tall and strong-shouldered, an unusual figure for his position. Men secretaries, as Wentworth knew them, usually were slight, smooth men whose chief function was to “yes” their employers and give meticulous body service.

This man was different. He performed the tasks suavely despite a build like a gladiator. He had a calm face and well ordered white hair— white, not with age but with blondness. His eyes were blue and direct as he addressed Wentworth.

“I hope, sir,” he said, “that you will not take umbrage at Mr. Love's remarks. He is prone to that sort of thing. Actually he has a great love for his workers and would do anything in the world for them.”

“Except part with money,” said Wentworth. The man smiled, moved a hand in a small, restrained gesture. “Even money,” he said, “makes no special difference. It is the idea of submitting to criminals that roils Mr. Love.”

“What am I expected to do about all this?” Wentworth demanded.

“I wish you would return, sir, and lend your assistance. Commissioner Battleson is a good man, but— somewhat unimaginative.”

Wentworth shrugged. “I doubt that Mr. Love sent you with any message. I don't like him, I don't like his manner. I have not been assigned to the case, and I shan't concern myself with it any longer. Good day.” Wentworth pivoted on his heel and strode on. But at that moment the front door flung open and with a burst of laughter a girl ran into the hall, a girl black-haired and black-eyed, with the high color of the cold on her cheeks, flakes of snow glistening upon a dark fur coat.

Behind her came two men; one dark-faced and somber, with a brisk black mustache and a monocle screwed into his eye, strode deliberately; the other, an easily smiling, muscular youth, rather carelessly dressed in tweed, ran after the girl and caught her by the shoulders.

The girl made a move at him, red soft lips puckered defiantly, stood chatting, pulling off gloves, then spotted Wentworth and checked sharply, her face sobering. She hesitated, giggled— but she did it charmingly, naturally, as at some huge joke. Then she walked up to Wentworth and smiled into his face.

“You're Richard Wentworth,” she said, challenging.

Wentworth bowed.

“I can't deny it,” he laughed. “I don't care to when so charming a creature addresses me by name.”

The girl's smile widened. She had a generous mouth. “But you don't ask questions,” she said. “You don't ask me how I know you.”

“Sorry,” he said gravely. “Won't you please tell me how you happen to recognize me?”

“That's much better,” she said, nodding regally. “Now I'll tell you. When I was a freshman in college, Nita van Sloan was a senior. And she had your picture. So you see, it's not so mysterious after all.”WENTWORTH laughed. “It still seems immensely mysterious. Why in the world you should remember a photograph!” He was thinking rapidly, trying to remember someone in school whom his fiancee, Nita van Sloan, might have mentioned. This girl evidently had free access to the Love mansion.

The girl dropped her head in pretended coquettishness “But, Mr. Wentworth, Nita told me of all the wonderful things you were doing. And I— I was in love with you!”

“Ah, a conquest,” said Wentworth, lightly. “Isn't it about time you told me your name?”

“Prepare to be impressed,” said the girl, mischievously. She flung up an arm in a stagey gesture. “I am Renee, the daughter of the great Jonathan Love!'' She held out her white hand. ‘You may kiss our hand,” she said.

Wentworth did so, admirably, straightened to catch a surprised, disquieted look in the girl's eyes. “Ooh,”

she said, “maybe I used the past tense too soon on that little affair of the picture.”

“I sincerely trust so,” said Wentworth seriously.

The good-looking young man with the wide muscular shoulders stalked in on him. “I say, hasn't this gone on quite long enough?” He was laughing. “Renee has forgotten her manners.” He held out his hand. “I am Tremaine Smith, and this,” he gestured towards the dark man with the monocle, “is Wilhelm Reuters, one of Love's able scientists.”

Reuters clicked his heels in a bow that was as precise as his clothing and his brisk mustache.

Tremaine Smith smiled as Wentworth executed an equally formal bow.

“I can see I'm running into heavy competition,” he said. “Before there were three of us, Reuters, myself and Jack DeIaney. And after the democratic manner of the great of our nation, Renee has rather favored Delaney, a mere foreman. . .”

Renee whirled on Smith, her eyes flashing. “What do you mean, mere? He's as good a man— ”

Tremaine Smith shook his head and laughed. “You see?” he said. “Delaney is the favored one.”

Renee whirled about as quickly again, turning her fur-covered back upon Smith, tossing her head, so that she spoke to him over her shoulder. The high color of her face was heightened by a rosy blush.

“I hate you,” she declared vehemently. “Hush, child,” said Smith. ‘Your elders are talking. I was about to add that now we have a fourth rival in you, Wentworth. My seconds will call on you this evening.”

Throughout the entire colloquy, the secretary had effaced himself. But now, as Wentworth bowed and moved to go, he stepped forward. Renee turned her large dark eyes upon him. “What is it, Crosswell?” “Pardon me, Miss Renee, but Mr. Love is very anxious to have Mr. Wentworth remain.”

“That is quite impossible,” Wentworth said. “I have explained that already.” He turned back to Renee, ignoring the secretary's interjected words. “I wonder if Mr. Delaney is by any chance in Elkhorn?”

The girl's eyes widened. “How did you know?”

Wentworth's smile was quiet. “I didn't know,” he said. “It's just a piece of luck. I'll remember you to Nita, shall I?” He bowed his farewell, clicked heels at Tremaine Smith and the dark- faced Reuters and walked on, followed by the ubiquitous secretary, Crosswell.

“I am afraid,” said the secretary, “that Mr. Love is going to be terribly upset about this.”

Wentworth raised his brows. “How distressing,” he murmured. “Would you mind having a taxi called?” The two men eyed each other. Crosswell's blue eyes fixed on Wentworth's cold direct gaze. Finally Crosswell smiled slightly.

“I'll be pleased to call you a taxi,” he said. Wentworth smiled curiously. Crosswell whirled his strangely active body about and crossed to a phone. Fifteen minutes later, back in town, Wentworth rented a car and sped toward Elkhorn, thirty miles away.

THE place was, as Love had said, a model town, squared out upon the plains of Michigan. Wentworth approached it down a broad, double- laned avenue. He spotted a sign, “Jonathan Boulevard” and smiled grimly. Everywhere were the Venus cars which Love manufactured and everywhere were small neatly made brick houses, each with its scrap of lawn and fenced-in yard. Children romped in the sun, bundled against the biting cold. Smoke hazed from the chimneys and everywhere was a pleasant hominess— peculiar to these model towns. Wentworth saw these things, and his eyes narrowed at the memory of the threat of the Green Hand, at the thought of the cruel, crawling gas that burned through flesh and bone, that tore gasping screams of agony from its victims before they died with green-hued faces. How it could desolate this entire city, lay these romping children horribly dead upon the ground!

There was white rage within him. Who was this Jonathan Love that, like a god, he waved five thousand souls into hell with a dignified hand? Not that Wentworth favored the payment of the ransom, but it would do no harm to temporize.

By appearing to compromise with the crooks, they could gain time— time to locate the men who had stolen the fearful horror gas and were using it in this fiendishly callous extortion plot. If Love had any doubt that these men would do precisely as they threatened, Wentworth could disabuse him of that illusion.

Wentworth sent the car droning straight along the main boulevard toward the steel plant that now poked tall chimneys like an ordered line of soldiers above the far edge of town. It was an extensive well-ordered factory, with buildings as neat as the brick houses of the workers. A high wire fence circled it, strands of

villainous barbs along its top. Here and there red-lettered signs shouted:

DANGER! THIS FENCE CHARGED WITH20,000 VOLTS!

Guards paced within, separated from its danger by other more moderately high fences. Wentworth smiled grimly. A formidable barrier, but it could not keep out the drifting green tentacles of death that the criminals would loose upon it. He whirled his car up to a gate. It remained closed and two men marched up arrogantly, eyes suspicious beneath visored caps.

“I want to see Jack Delaney,” Wentworth told them. “He's a foreman here.”

“No callers during working hours,” the guard growled.

“This is business,” Wentworth said sharply. “Business about what?”

Wentworth's eyes went cold. “That is exclusively between Mr. Delaney and myself. If you have any doubts about the matter or any further curiosity, you may phone Mr. Love. He's at his home now. I've no doubt he will be glad to know you are so zealous in your duties.”

The guard's sullenness dropped from him like a mask. “I'm sorry, sir. We have strict orders that the men are not to be interrupted at their work, except in emergency.”

“Very admirable,” said Wentworth, his tones biting. “Will you get Mr. Delaney at once? My business is urgent.”

The guard jerked out a military, “Yes, sir,” strode back to the guardhouse, touched levers and threw open the gate. Wentworth drove in and the man mounted the running board, directing him among the maze of buildings to a foundry on the far side of the enclosed area.

“If you'll wait just a moment, sir,” he said then, “I'll get Mr. Delaney directly,” and marched off.

IN a few moments a bulky, shouldery young man with good-natured blue eyes in a freckled face, a work cap set jauntily upon wiry red hair, strode up to Wentworth's car. “I'm Delaney,” he said.

Wentworth climbed deliberately to the ground, offered his hand. “My name is Wentworth.”

“You come from Love?” Delaney obviously was puzzled.

“Directly,” said Wentworth, “but I'm not here on his business.”

Delaney took that information in without a change of expression, but a slight hostility crept into his eyes. “I'm busy,” he said. “If you've got in here by a trick, it will do you no good.”

Wentworth looked the man over slowly. Delaney was even taller than his own five feet eleven, broad of shoulder, well built.

“Will you state your business?” Delaney snapped. “Or shall I summon the guard?”

Wentworth laughed. “I don't wonder Tremaine Smith and Reuters are worried. I think I should be too. You're a very fiery young man.”

“What the hell are you driving at?” There was belligerency in Delaney's manner. His hands were still unclenched at his sides, but his shoulders rolled forward.

Wentworth sobered. “Just this,” he said. “I want your cooperation. It is necessary that you trust me for me to have that. If you doubt me at all, I wish you would call Renee Love at once and ask her about Richard Wentworth.”

Delaney's puzzlement increased. “Renee,” he said slowly. “How do you happen to know her?”

Wentworth jerked a hand in a sharp negative gesture. “All this is beside the point. Do you want to check up on me further or are you willing to take me at face value?”

Delaney gave him as slow and careful an inspection as Wentworth had made of him. “If I knew what you were talking about, I could decide better,” he said. “But I'll take a chance. You look O.K.”

Wentworth nodded. “That's fine. Now listen. There's a plot to kill every man, woman and child in Elkhorn.” And Wentworth gave him the entire text of the letter, together with Jonathan Love's attitude. “I'm calling here to protect the plant and town,” he said. “I'm convinced in advance that this probably will prove futile. I want your help. Are you willing?”

Delaney's face was flushed with anger. “That sounds like Love,” he said. “That's just the sort of high and mighty stuff he'd pull. Doesn't give a damn that five or six thousand people may die to satisfy his vanity. Sometimes— ”

Wentworth gripped his arm sharply. “There's a detachment of guards,” he spoke swiftly, “marching this

way with guns ready. I have a hunch that means trouble to me. Where can I get in touch with you tonight?”

DELANEY snapped out a phone number and address. Wentworth nodded his head and taking the other's arm, strolled back toward the auto.

“What's this all about?” Delaney asked. “These guards, I mean.”

As if in answer, a gruff voice hailed, “Keep away from that car.”

Wentworth whirled then to face the guards, apparently seeing them for the first time. They had strung out so that they formed a semi-circle, penning him against the factory wall.

Delaney spun angrily. “What is the meaning of this, Simmons?”

The man he addressed held a revolver in his hand. It was leveled at Wentworth. The others in the group had guns leveled too.

“This man is wanted for murder,” said Simmons. “Mr. Love phoned to arrest him. Come away, sir. He's desperate and we may have to shoot.” The gun pointed purposefully. “Mr. Croswell phoned. Mr. Love said not to hesitate to kill him if necessary.”

Wentworth thought swiftly. A murder charge— it might be any one of a score of killings that, as the Spider, he had been forced to commit, each one wiping out some menace to society, eliminating some new threat to civilization. But only a few intimates knew Wentworth was the Spider, Nita van Sloan, his body servant, Ram Singh, Professor Brownlee. . . No, it must be one of the killings he had been forced to commit in the woods, defending himself against attack. But who had traced a connection between the bearded trapper, Joe Koch, and the suave man of wealth, Wentworth? Like a flash came the answer— George Scott!

Then the red-headed man he had overcome in the woods was on the scene, and was behind this ghastly extortion plot. He was seeking to eliminate Wentworth before the crucial attack. But he must not be eliminated! Even a few days in jail now might mean the loss of thousands of lives, that deadly green horror might be released on the capitals of the world! He must escape!

Wentworth glanced swiftly about: Six men with guns penned him against the wall. If he escaped them, there was that fence which to touch meant death. He faced the guards. Simmons and the five men where closing in with drawn guns!

CHAPTER SIX A Rugged Individualist

DELANEY stepped in front of Wentworth. “A murder charge? That's ridiculous.” He cut the air with the edge of his right hand. “This man is a friend of mine.”

The guards continued to advance, and the muzzles of their pistols did not waver. Delaney was angrily posed, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward pugnaciously. Wentworth touched him on the shoulder.

“Never mind, Delaney,” he said “There is obviously some mistake.” He turned toward the man called Simmons, inspected his alert set face. “I'll go with you, Simmons,” he said, “on one condition. When we reach the guardhouse, you must phone Crosswell and let me talk to him.”

Simmons' mouth was tight. “You'll come with us anyway,” he said shortly.

Wentworth smiled easily. “Doubtless, Simmons, doubtless. I just didn't want you to make a mistake. It might re-act against you. Misunderstandings are possible, you know.”

“Boloney! This is just a stall!” said Simmons. But there was no certainty in his voice, and the guards lost their tense readiness. They had come prepared to shoot it out with a desperate criminal and had found instead a poised gentleman. Though they still held their guns, three had lowered them. Simmons, himself, pointed his weapon less surely.

“Well, how about it?” Wentworth demanded. “Do we call Crosswell or are you going to risk your job?” The man frowned dubiously, his entire face wrinkling. “I don't see as it would do any harm to phone Crosswell,” he said. “Though he don't like being disturbed.”

Wentworth nodded and walked toward Simmons, submitted to a search which found no weapon. Then, with the guards about him, he went briskly back to the entrance gate, Delaney marching indignantly at his side.

The call to Crosswell went through swiftly, and Wentworth got him to the phone without difficulty. “Wentworth speaking,” he said. “The captain of your guard at the Elkhorn plant says you phoned him to arrest me for murder. It was a little strange,” Wentworth's tone grew bantering, “since I didn't remember committing any murders recently and I thought I'd like to satisfy my curiosity about the matter.”

Crosswell said, “What!” in an amazed tone and Wentworth repeated slowly.

Crosswell sputtered: “That's ridiculous. I've not made a phone call to him today.”

“I thought not,” said Wentworth softly. “Would you mind speaking to Simmons then?”

“Certainly,” Crosswell said. Wentworth turned to the grim-faced captain of the guard. He was a worried man now, his forehead ridged with anxiety. He took the telephone without a word, and said, ‘Yes, sir” and again, “Yes, sir,” and again. He tried vainly to edge in a protest. “I know, sir, but he. . . I hope, sir, that this won't be held against me. . . I was just. . . Yes, sir. . . Right away, sir. . .”

He hung up slowly and turned, removing his cap and sponging his forehead with a handkerchief. The handkerchief came away wet.

“I'm sorry about this, sir,” he said to Wentworth. “But somebody I would have sworn was Crosswell phoned me, gave me his secret identification and gave me the order that I started out to execute.” His face was pale. “Good God, sir, suppose you had resisted!”

“Then, Simmons,” said Wentworth slowly, “You'd have been in a devilish bad spot.” He turned to Delaney. “I'll see you later.”

Delaney nodded, scowled at the guard, then strode away.

WENTWORTH, having his car brought from within, drove rapidly back to Loveland. He registered at the Grandleigh and had scarcely entered his room before Crosswell's voice was on the wire again.

“Mr. Love is very anxious. . .” Crosswell began.

“I'm not,” Wentworth snapped. “I gave Love an opportunity to cooperate and he refused it pigheadedly.

I'm making my own plans now. And Love can conform with them or not as he sees fit.”

Crosswell's laughter over the phone was soft, but surprisingly genuine. “I think,” he said, “that you will have little difficulty about that. He has been talking with the Governor over long distance, and the Governor made the same sort of recommendation. I might say that I urged on him myself the necessity of appearing to

conform with the criminals in order to trap them.”

“That will do no good now,” Wentworth said bitterly. “The criminals know I am on the case. That call today to accomplish my arrest was their work. I'm sure of that.”

Crosswell's voice grew agitated. “You mean they'll know the offer to pay is a fake?”

Wentworth laughed grimly. “I doubt they expected to collect without striking a blow.”

“Just a minute, sir,” said Crosswell, and Wentworth heard over the wire the murmur of voices, Crosswell's and the incisive tones of Jonathan Love.

“Mr. Love requests;” Crosswell said finally, “that you become a guest at his home. So that he may cooperate more fully with you in arranging this defense.”

“I will come there tonight for a discussion of plans,” Wentworth said shortly, “but I consider it better to keep my headquarters here.”

He slapped up the receiver. Even the thought of Jonathan Love annoyed him, and he did not wish to have any dealings with him. But the man was powerful. He might help, if he would, in thwarting the criminals. Regardless of how Wentworth felt about it, he considered that he must at least try to cooperate with Love for the sake of the people of Elkhorn, for the sake of the world, threatened by that clutching, brutal Green Hand.

As always, when disturbed, Wentworth turned to his music for comfort, taking his rare violin from its case and drawing throbbing music from it. As first the music, reflecting his mood, was violent and angry. But gradually it changed, and dulcet notes trilled from it. Smiling then, he crossed to the phone again and called Nita van Sloan at her apartment high above the Hudson on Riverside Drive. Never was he long without calling or seeing her, and now he seized the first pause of this new crusade to hear her sweet voice. As always, it revived him, buoyed his spirits. He could close his eyes and see her lovely aristocratic face with its cluster brown curls about it, her blue eyes of mystery. . . Finally he asked her to give a message to Ram Singh, his body servant extraordinary and hung up.

He called Delaney into conference then and went over the terrain about Elkhorn which soon was to be the battleground for titanic forces. And he took Delaney with him when he went to the Love home.

HE did not see Renee, nor the two men, Smith and Reuters. Love was seated as before behind his huge walnut desk, the deep lines of his face accented, heavily shadowed by worry.

“I understand,” he began at once, “that you consider it too late now to try to trick these people with a fake payment.”

Wentworth nodded, introduced Delaney. “One of your foremen.”

“I know Delaney,” Love said stiffly.

There was a grim humor about Delaney's mouth as that fiery young redhead stared at the owner of the factory in which he was only a minor employee. He seemed to draw a certain humorous satisfaction from the situation, but he remained in the background, as did Crosswell.

Love's dark eyes fixed on Wentworth's face. “What do you recommend?”

“Immediate evacuation of Elkhorn. Move all the families to other towns. Close your factory, except for guards.”

Love's face darkened. “But that is impossible!” he cried, his tones angry. “It means the loss of millions and would accomplish nothing. My interests are wide and scattered. These criminals have only to shift their attack to some other point. If I did that I soon should be forced to suspend all my industries.”

Wentworth's mouth was shut tightly. He nodded slowly. “That is a possibility, but meantime, it would save the lives of these threatened people, and it would give us time to trace the Green Hand.”

Love took a quick turn up and down the room, agitation in his long striding legs, in the rigid posture of his back. He stopped abruptly and shook a bony finger in Wentworth's face. ‘You're deliberately trying to humiliate me,” he thundered.

Wentworth smiled gently. “I don't give a damn about you,” he said. “I'm only interested in preserving the lives of your workmen and their families.”

Love's sallow skin became almost apoplectic with a rush of angry blood. “Get out!” he roared.

“Oh, shut up,” said Wentworth wearily. “This is what you'll have to do. Evacuate the town secretly. Throw state troops about it armed with gas masks. I've been over the terrain with Delaney here. Outposts must be thrown— ”

Love had been speechless with fury. Now his voice burst out hoarsely. “Get out before I have you thrown out!”

Wentworth bowed stiffly. “Very well, but I'm warning you that unless you behave more reasonably I will take the matter out of your hands entirely and evacuate the town myself.”

Delaney beside him, he stalked toward the door. It was flung open, and Renee ran in, her dark eyes wide, her cheeks flushed. “Dad,” she cried, “surely you must see that you can't do this with your people!”

“Go to your room,” Love snapped.

The girl stared at him in amazement. Slowly her own small shapely body became rigid, too. A counterpart of Love's own harsh commanding gaze glared back at him. “I am not a servant,” she said. “Don't speak to me like one.” For a moment father and daughter stared angrily into each other's eyes.

It was Wentworth who interceded. “It is quite hopeless, Miss Love,” he said. “Your father is what is known as a rugged individualist. Cooperation would be impossible for him. Do not concern yourself about this.”

The girl turned toward him, anger still burning in her eyes. “But the people— ” Her appealing glance flicked to Delaney also.

Wentworth smiled. “Jack and I will see that they are removed from danger.” He bowed again and stalked out.

The girl ran after him, but it was Delaney to whom she appealed now. “Oh, Jack, do everything you can.” Her hand on Delaney's arm, her face, with its red generous mouth upturned to his. “Father is not really mean, or as blind as that. He means well. But the mere thought of criminals infuriates him.”

“So I see,” said Delaney dryly. He covered the girl's white hand with his large brown one.

“Oh, Jack . . .” choked the girl.

Wentworth broke in. “Another time, Jack. We've got to hurry now, Renee. There's work to be done. One hell of a lot of it. I think that gang may strike at any moment, now that they know Love won't pay.”

He strode out of the house with Delaney at his heels. They flung into a car and raced for Elkhorn. As they sped on Wentworth talked swiftly to Delaney. “I had hoped,” he said, “to get Love's cooperation in evacuating the city. That would have made it much simpler. Now there is no choice but to do it without his assistance. That may prove difficult. It is hard to convince a man who is healthy and well within his own home that within five minutes' time he and all his family may be dead.”

“Five minutes!” cried Delaney.

Wentworth's eyes glittered. “It may be five minutes. It may be five days. But if I were those criminals, I think I should strike at once.”

They were silent then for minutes, while the motor roared, dragging them along smooth roads at a mile a minute pace. The cold air whined and whistled past. Wentworth's hand, numb within a glove, began to stiffen about the steering wheel. He slapped life back into it against his knee.

“There's this about it,” said Delaney. “If they are sure of themselves, it would be a hell of a sight more effective if they waited until the soldiers were all there, then turned loose the gas.”

Wentworth nodded. “Troops are already there,” he said. “I called the Governor this afternoon.”

“You called the Governor!” Delaney repeated slowly. “Good Lord, then the attack is certainly on tonight. They'll turn loose that gas. . .”

He leaned forward, clenched fists on his knees.

“Can't you get any more speed out of this car?” he demanded, savagely. “God help us to reach there before the massacre begins!”