"Run!" shouted Stevens.

"But—the Greek," panted Vanderschoof as they climbed the steps.

"Hell with him. Or here—wait." Stevens turned and thrust his fist through the glass upper portion of the door. Out in the dusk the three bird-forms were settling round their fallen foe. The flash of the banker's gun stabbed the night and was answered by a scream. Before he could take aim again, with a quick beat of wings, they were gone and when, daring greatly, he ran out a few moments later, he found that Pappagourdas was gone also.

He found the others on one of the benches in the outer office of the building, the girl with her face buried in her hands in an agony of fright and reaction. Vanderschoof, too old and cool a hand to give way in this fashion, looked up.

"What are they, Stevens?" he asked.

The Wall Street man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I don't know," he said. "Some new kind of high-power bird that developed while we were all being made into machines by that comet, I suppose. It's terrible.... They've got the Greek."

"Can't we get after them? There ought to be airplanes here."

"In this light? Can you fly one? I can't and I don't imagine the little girl here can."

The "little girl" lifted her head. She had recovered. "What did we come to this joint for, anyhow?" she asked. "To hang crêpe on the chandeliers?"

The words had the effect of an electric shock.

"Why, of course," said Stevens, "we did come here to see if we could find someone, didn't we?" and turning round he pushed open the door into the next room. Nothing.

"Wait," he said. "Not much use trying to do anything tonight. We haven't any flashlights."

"Aw, boloney," said the dancer, "what do you want us to do? Sit here and count our fingers? Go on, big boy, find a garage, you can get a light from one of the cars."

"Won't those birds see it?"

"You got a yellow streak a mile wide, haven't you? Birds sleep at night."

Stevens took a half-unwilling step toward the door. "Let me come with you," said Vanderschoof, rising.

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