Something hit “X’s” shoulder, made a stabbing pain. A rock splashed close by. Any instant death might come. Yet he dared not take Betty down into the depths again, and there was no assurance that a rock might not strike them under the surface as well as here.
He waited, paddling slowly in a solitude of blackness and death. And then a new menace came. For the tide had turned. He had lost all sense of direction, yet he could tell that in the last few seconds some change in the watery surge had come. The water that had gone out into the boiling wave was coming back, more sluggishly, to sink into the vast hole where the island had been, sink to replace tons of scattered earth. The Terror had fulfilled his threat, razed Baldwin Island to the water level. And now the waters were returning to cover the spot where it had been.
Agent “X” gasped as the tide seemed to reach for them. This was worse than any undertow. And somewhere ahead in the darkness, as the falling rocks began to diminish, he could hear the rushing, roaring sound of a giant whirlpool. It grew louder, closer every instant. He and Betty were being swept back toward it.
This was a new horror. They had lived through the tidal wave. But nothing could survive that sucking undertow. He knew it must be pulling debris down with it — as it would pull them, to crushing depths.
He fought now, snapped into action, brought all the power of his steel muscles into play. He turned over on his back, drew Betty on hers, placed his left arm under her chin, keeping her head up. It was a lifeguard’s maneuver, one that “X” had often used. It left his right arm free, the powerful scissors strokes of his legs unimpeded.
He swam as one would swim against a roaring current, swam with the blood pounding in his veins, with every muscle in his body straining like a tautened cord. Yet still the water bore him on. Still in his ears was that strange uncanny roaring. His eyes had grown used to the starlight again. He turned once, a tortured, straining face, and saw the boiling, deadly riptide where Baldwin Island had been. It was toward this he was going, toward the middle where horrors of green sea water were sliding down.
“Betty! Betty!” he called.
She stirred faintly then, as though the sound of his voice were bringing her back from great depths. But the moan that came from her lips ended in a choking gasp. She was on the borderland of consciousness, her lungs half-filled with water. He must fight it out alone, save her and himself, or go under with her to a watery death. The whirlpool could not last forever. The space the exploding island had made must at last fill up. The angry sea must reach its level again.
He fought with the frenzy of a man in the toils of some mighty beast. Yet the current drew him steadily closer. The white froth of the riptide was coming nearer. And Agent “X” almost gave up hope.
Chapter IX
HIS steely muscles could not exert themselves forever. His iron will could not battle endlessly against such overwhelming odds. Through seconds that seemed eternities he fought the sweeping, foaming current, till at last the tide, as though merciful to one who had struggled beyond all human endurance, began to slacken.
The Agent’s movements toward the snarling edge of the whirlpool slowed. He began to hold his own, began even to make headway against it. Behind him the sea lapsed into a low moaning whisper.
He was conscious of the water’s chill then, conscious of the black winter night around him. The cold cut into his very marrow as his own movements slowed. What must Betty Dale be feeling, still and limp in his arms?
He shook her gently. “Betty! Betty! We’re all right now.”
The faint sound she made frightened him. He turned her on her back, held her chin up, and moved her arms. She made another brief strangling noise. He saw then that he must get her out soon, drive the water from her lungs.
The thought that she was in danger clutched his heart in a grip of fear that all the terrors he had been through had failed to bring. He looked over the dark face of the water. Everywhere whistles were blowing and lights were springing up. Some were moving along the surface — boats.
Agent “X” filled his lungs with air. Not often did he ask anyone for help. Now it was not for himself, but for one who was more than a friend, one who had shared hideous dangers with him and had come through the Valley of Death at his side.
He gave a shout that sped across the water like a gull’s wild cry. Again and again he uttered it, till the wailing siren of a boat gave answer. He saw a light veer then, saw the red and green riding lanterns of a vessel coming fast.
He shouted once more, holding Betty’s small face up, moving her arms to drive the cold out. She couldn’t swim. She was almost strangled. Perhaps a blow from some passing bit of debris had struck her head. He trod water, keeping her afloat till the approaching craft raced nearer.
He could make out its lines now! It was one of the police patrol boats he’d seen earlier that evening, before the frightful explosion had come.
The blue-white beam of a spotlight whipped across the water, and Agent “X” waved his arm. The light centered upon him and Betty, and the boat swept close.
At the last it veered, then edged slowly toward them, drifting with the wind. Hands reached down from its low deck. Betty was taken aboard first and carried into the small warm cabin. “X” was helped from the water and followed.
Bluecoats stood all about them, men who, had they known “X’s” identity, would have snapped steel cuffs on him and menaced him with their guns. But they had no inkling that the mild-mannered stranger before them, in wet clothing, was the mysterious, uncanny Man of a Thousand Faces, regarded by the law as a desperate criminal. The Agent spoke quickly now:
“Get some blankets and liquor at once,” he said. “The girl must be attended to.”
A heavy-set cop bent over Betty to administer practical first aid, but Agent “X” thrust him aside. This was a job he would trust to no one. His amazing mind held data on many branches of science. Medicine was among those he had studied. He knew more tricks of resuscitation than any of these men around him.
He turned Betty face down on the floor, set to work expertly, moving her arms in a way that forced water from her lungs and started blood surging through her heart. In a moment she stirred and a faint trace of color crept to her cheeks.
Relief swept in upon the Agent now that he saw Betty Dale was safe. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of forgetfulness, a second’s peace after the nightmarish horrors of the past half hour. But the cops’ grimly questioning faces brought him back to the sinister mystery of the explosion.
“The girl’s Miss Betty Dale of the Herald,” he said. “She went out to interview the squatters who slipped back after you fellows had driven them away. My name’s Ross. We were just leaving when the big noise came. What was it?”
The cops looked at each other quickly. In deliberately querying them first, “X” had checkmated questioning of himself. He kept up the pose of a puzzled witness of some mysterious happening.
“Did the city have dynamite on the island, or what the hell?”
“One guess is as good as another, buddy,” said a cop guardedly. “Maybe there was a powder house over on the dump. Who knows?”
Betty Dale was sitting up, talking with the police when “X” re-entered the cabin. They had delved into their emergency chest, provided her with an ill-fitting woman’s coat, dress, and a pair of shoes several sizes too large. She exchanged a single, meaning glance with the Agent.