In her penthouse apartment, high up on Riverside Drive, overlooking the misty Hudson which she loved to paint, Nita van Sloan sat upon a window seat and stared unseeingly out into the darkness of the night.
Far out on the bosom of the Hudson gleamed the pale yellow lights of passing boats. The black Jersey shore was shrouded in mist, a delicate problem for any artist's brush. But Nita van Sloan saw none of that. For all the deep cushioned comfort of the window seat, she sat tensely, chin resting on her palm. It was far past midnight, but sleep would not come to the troubled girl.
Lying beside her on the floor, the Great Dane dog that Dick Wentworth had given her as a puppy stared up at her with worshipping eyes, its nose outstretched upon its forepaws.
Nita sighed deeply, and the dog rose with a low whine in its throat, and rested its head in the girl's lap.
The girl's blue eyes were tired as she turned them upon the dog. She smiled faintly.
“Are you worried, too, Apollo, about our Dick?” she asked.
The dog emitted a small coughing bark. It was his invariable response to the name of the master he loved.
The girl swung back her pajama-clad legs to the floor and strode nervously to a small table. She picked up a cigarette and ignited it. A moment later she tossed it away and moved restively about the room, changing the position of a picture, picking up a hair pin from the floor, doing a dozen things without thought.
For she knew that Richard Wentworth never before had crossed blades with so dangerous an antagonist as the Black Death. Swiftly Nita came to a decision. Phoning would be useless. He would only laugh at her fears, cajole her into remaining—and waiting—alone. And tonight she wanted warmer solace than that. She tore off the pajamas as if they strangled her, dressed with swift speed, and snapping a leash upon Apollo's collar, left the building.
In the pocket of her sport-suit she carried a small but deadly gun Dick had given her. She summoned a taxi, and entering it gave in a low voice the number of Wentworth's apartment house.
Her touch of the bell of his penthouse had hardly sounded the buzzer before the door swung open and the haggard face of gray-haired old Jenkyns stared out.
The smiles that usually wreathed his ruddy countenance were missing. Nita felt her heart contract.
“Then Dick—Dick isn't home?” she asked. Jenkyns shook his old head slowly, stepped aside for her to enter. Apollo, released, bounded ahead through the apartment, snuffing excitedly. But presently he returned and crowded close against Nita as she stood in the luxuriously furnished drawing room, looking about with vacant eyes.
“Ram Singh?” she asked.
Once more Jenkyns shook his head, and Nita's hopes sank again. “They didn't leave together, Miss Nita. Ram Singh went out a little while after the master.” Ram Singh had a broken arm, and a man couldn't fight with his arm in splints, Nita thought. Listlessly she tugged her brown hat from her gleaming, curly head and walked slowly toward a window.
Abruptly she was tense again, for from the hall sounded the metallic buzz of the phone. She raced to it, snatched up the receiver.
“Richard Wentworth's apartment,” she said, her words trembling with hope.
The voice that came over the wire was not Dick's. It had a soft sibilance that made Nita's hand tighten about the receiver, that made a chill of dread race down her spine.
“Ah, Miss van Sloan,” said the voice on the wire, “I thought I could find you there after I called your own apartment vainly. Richard Wentworth—the Spider—is my prisoner.”
A gasp shuddered from the girl. Someone had penetrated the secret that no one save those who battled for him knew. Someone had discovered that Richard Wentworth was the Spider! And that someone—she was suddenly sure was the Black Death!
“What do you want?” she demanded, striving to drive the fear from her tone.
“Ah,” said the voice, “I see that you are reasonable. That is fortunate. I was about to kill the Spider, but learning his identity I remembered that he was a wealthy man—and money is very dear to me. If you would care to ransom him—”
“Oh yes, yes!” Nita cried.
Evil laughter taunted her. “It will not be so simple as that. You cannot come with the police and liberate your—friend. For there is a little safety device which I have arranged to protect myself.
“In the Spider's pocket is a cigarette lighter that is a twin to his own in every respect save one. In this one the seal of the Spider will not dissolve when it is opened, and the secret chamber is so clumsily hidden that even the dull-witted police can discover it.”