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mortal can come. But even he was not infallible.
    With the slight instant that his eyes were on the quarry lake, there was a berserk roar from the woods at their left. The roar of a heavy motor gunned to the full. Instantly Benson was vibrantly alert, again, but it was too late.
    A heavy truck rocketed from the woods, down a lane so dim that it could only be seen when you were right at its mouth. It shot for the sedan. And its goal was absolutely assured.
    There was a level, clear space at each side of the lane, where the truck could veer right or left if necessary. That meant that the sedan could stop still, back up, or shoot ahead—and still not get out of the way of the truck, which could change direction just as the sedan did.
    Benson tried to shoot ahead. The sedan motor roared with as deep a note as that of the truck motor as it hurled toward the car.
    The heavy front bumper of the truck ground into the left front fender of the sedan, forced the wheels hard right.
    Benson fought the steering wheel. With the astounding power that lay in his lithe body, he jerked them back in line. But the elephant weight of the truck was still jammed against their side, straining, pushing.
    For an instant it looked as if the eight thousand pounds of the sedan would be enough; as if the steel hands at the steering wheel would be enough. But the instant passed!
    The sedan leaned through the guard rail. Two wheels slid over the sheer edge of the old quarry. The track seemed to squeal with triumph like a vast boar. And then the sedan went over, with the four men in it.
    It hit the water with a great splash, and sank, wavering from side to side like a dropped coin as long as the eye could follow its subterranean course. Then the eye could no longer see the sinking bulk. After all, it was sixty-eight feet down at this point.
    There was no sound. The ripples subsided on the surface of the water. Air bubbles came from the black depths. Then these ceased, too.
    The jolly-looking fat man at the wheel of the truck chuckled a little. Then he backed the truck, heavy iron bumper-guard bent like a pretzel, from the water’s edge.
    He ran back up the road to the gully, to see what had happened to the three men there; and, arriving, picked up their unconscious forms and put them in the truck. He went to the main highway and gathered up the false detour sign and the thug who had hidden it in the woods as soon as it had performed its task of turning Benson onto the side road.
    Then, with all loose ends neatly gathered up, the fat man drove back to the penthouse apartment in Garfield City to collect the huge sum offered for killing The Avenger and his helpers.
    Bit money! Easy money! The fat man chuckled as he thought just how easy it had been.

CHAPTER VII

Strange Doom!
    With the temporary mental lapse of the well-known banker, John Blandell, Garfield City seemed to have been let in for a series of lunatic occurrences.
    There was Blandell’s weird act of giving away crisp one-dollar bills, in front of the bank.
    There was the equally weird attempt of Henry Sessel to do a tap dance in the general office of the Garfield Gear Company.
    There was the wholly incredible murder of the two men by Allen Wainwright—which was as outlandish as it would be for a Cabinet member to murder the President.
    But the things didn’t stop there. They kept right on happening, only to less well-known personages.
    The first succeeding thing was the utterly fantastic performance of an old man in a station wagon.
    The old man was parked at the gate of the Garfield Gear Company yard. He was just sitting there in the station wagon. There were letters on the wagon’s side. They read:
    CRANLOWE HEIGHTS
    The old driver, a sturdy, rugged, gray-haired figure in livery, was staring unseeingly into space. But a glance at his face would have told you that he was neither simple-minded nor a woolgatherer. He was just relaxed, that was all, as a person tends to be when he is waiting for