trest creaked as she mounted it。 The coachman didn't even have to click his tongue or use the whip to start the horse； Manning could tell。 At the first slackening of the reins he had been pulling in so tightly until now； the terrified horse instantly broke into a rapid trot that soon became a headlong gallop； so anxious was it to get away from the threatening spot。
Manning sidled noiselessly out from under the tree and stood waiting for his panion…in…hiding to break cover and join him。 The reeds failed to part at his whistle。 When he had repeated it a second time and still no sign of Belmonte； he made his way over to them himself； a strange sort of foreboding beginning to chill him。
〃Raul！〃 he whispered urgently； picking his way into their midst across the waterlogged stones。 The reeds were empty。 He could see some of them bent flat； around where his panion had been crouched； but there was no one in them any more。
He emerged； went back； and started up the slope alone。
The road was empty in the moonlight when he reached it。 He had hardly taken a preliminary step or two along it than he became aware of some sort of disturbance； offside to him。 On the side away from the lake； that is。 He stood rigid； listening。 It came again； a muffled scuffling or threshing sound； as of a large animal caught in a trap or incapacitated in some way and trying to free itself。
He veered toward it； moving warily。 It came a third time； unmistakable now： a violent； frantic agitation against leaves or plants； an attempt at extrication。 He drew his gun； plunged in off the road toward it； warding off branches and briars as he went。
The thrashing accelerated； as though driven to a frenzy of haste by his very approach。
A moment later he went down flat and his gun crashed deafeningly； set off by the fall itself。 Something or somebody lying tied up in his path had tripped him。
He groveled around rearward； wiping a smarting powder smudge off his cheek； found his light； and thumbed it on。 It revealed a huddled human form lying face down； hands bound behind it with a knitted necktie evidently taken from its own attire。
Manning turned him over and it was a grizzled man of fifty； with bedraggled walrus mustaches。 A mass of rumpled linen had been pressed into his mouth to gag him。 Manning pulled it out； and it seemed to keep ing endlessly。 It turned pinkish toward the end。 He'd been badly bludgeoned about the head； thin but numerous streams of blood were crisscrossed all down his face。
He was only barely conscious； the whites of his eyes rolled expiringly as Manning propped him up。 He shook him urgently。
〃Who are you？ What happened？ Who did this to you？〃
〃I don't know；〃 the dying man said faintly。 〃Somebody…from behind…down off the box…〃 He went limp； with a sort of convulsive spasm。
Manning let go of him； jumped to his feet with a hoarse cry of horror that went crackling through the trees。 This must be Marjorie's coachman； who had brought her here。 And if he had been struck down； left trussed up here like this； it could only mean one thing…！
The very Thing he was out to trap had hold of her at this moment； had driven oil with her to finish her at his leisure！
He burst out through the underbrush； sprinted down the road； pocketing his gun as he went。 When he veered offside into the small treesurrounded clearing in which Belmonte had left his car； hoping against hope； almost praying… he found what he'd dreaded to find all along； the place was empty； the car was gone。 And no one could have taken it but its owner； Manning himself had seen him pocket the keys when they both got out。
He emerged again； went staggering down the long desolate tube of silver and black that was the road； forced to go on afoot now。 The odds were hopeless this way； he could never hope to overtake her in time。
Just before the desolate road turned in to unite with the main driveway once more； something came sidling toward him along its surface。 Something that glinted as he approached。 He recognized it as he stooped to pick it up。 It was the revolver that he himself had handed her at the Inglaterra only a few hours earlier。 He put it to his face。 Odorless。 She'd never had a chance to use it。 His chin was puckered into a weazened expression as he went trotting on。
Didn't this road ever end？ And while he asked himself that； it did。 The main driveway was empty under its lights。 No one was leaving the Bosque now any more； they all had； long ago。 He padded on。 Ahead a wan glow began to brighten； fan out。 The Puerta Mayor； the entrance to the city。
Suddenly lights gushed up like illuminated oil seeping out of the ground； and the periphery of the city lay spread before him。 He stopped with sudden hopelessness； partly because of his pounding lungs； mostly because he didn't know where to go any more from here on。 He was confronted by six radiating avenues that branched Out from the Puerta Mayor like spokes of a half wheel。 To follow one through to the end was to slight the other five。 She was lost for good now； buried alive somewhere in that wilderness of stones and buildings that stretched before him as far as the eye could reach。
The expression on his face was that of someone trying to retch。 The third largest city of South America。 Three quarters of a million people。 Minutes to find her。
Finally； still breathing heavily； he cut across the glorieta。 Sweat was running down his forehead。 He was still unable to make up his mind which street to choose。 The odds were too heavy； the stake was too high。 Six to one； a girl's life。 He felt as helpless as when he had first e here； in the days when he didn't know his way around town yet。 When it was just a blur of strange streets with strange names； all leading in strange directions。
He passed one of those direction finders that he used to have to rely on。 He hadn't paid any attention to them in years。 City maps with an adjustable indicator； that you found at some of the busier corners。 Copied from Europe； they weren't known up in the States。 He remembered how they used to straighten him out each time he got balled up。 You set the indicator for where you wanted to go； and also for where you were； and it would show the straightest line between the two points。
Suddenly he flung around； went back to the one he had just passed； as a thought struck him。 It was set at chest level for the convenience of passers…by。 He reared one leg up and rammed into it。 The glass protecting the map trickled off。 He wanted。 it to be able to take pencil marks for what he had in mind； the indicator wasn't enough。
He poised his pencil over the denuded chart； began marking off the locations of the attacks； mumbling to himself as he did so。
〃One； Teresa Delgado…Pasaje del Diablo。〃 He ground Out a black sworl of penciling to mark it clearly。 〃Two； Conchita Contreras…All Saints。 Three； Clo…Clo…at the corner of San Marco and the Calle de Justicia。〃 He moistened the pencil tip。 〃Four； Sally O'Keefe…beside the lagoon in the Bosque。〃 Tonight's didn't count； it was simply a repetition at the same spot as the one before。
He had four black marks on the map now。 He drew a line from each across to its opposite。 They made a slightly irregular X； one arm a little longer than the other。
He peered closely at the finely printed diagram； to see where the two axes crossed； to determine where the focus was。 He drew an arbitrary circle around it； to identify it still more plainly。 It enpassed the Alameda district； roughly the section between there and the Plaza de los Mбrtires。 And dead center through this ran an almost indistinguishable thread； marked minutely on the map…Callejуn de las Sombras。
In other words； the place where it had originally disappeared was still the one locale in the city equidistant from all four of the attacks。 Somewhere around in there was the base of operations。 Somewhere around in there was the lair。
True； that alley had been thoroughly searched once already。 True； there was no guarantee that he necessarily covered an equal distance away from his starting point each time。 But it was all Manning had； it was the best he could do。 And it was still a wh