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had probably done the job on Joe. There was no trace of the butler—apparently he'd been left in the Sinclair estate.
    Joe blinked, his head still throbbing. That made sense. But why had the kidnappers taken Joe along? Why not leave him at the scene of the crime, too? And what about Jeanne Sinclair? She was probably a member of a group of pranksters calling themselves the Circle. She'd gotten scared and alerted Joe and Frank—in a sort of roundabout way.
    Joe had a strong suspicion that the slugger with the blackjack had been at the house either to scare Jeanne Sinclair—or to kidnap her. Either way, he'd walked in at the wrong moment and now he was tangled up in the whole mess, too.
    Okay, so far everything fits together pretty well, Joe told himself. At least as well as my broken head can put it all together.
    But then he stopped and thought. Practical jokers, even slightly dangerous ones, didn't usually go around with blackjacks in their pockets. They didn't knock people out, and they probably wouldn't go in for kidnapping because there wouldn't be much joke in that.
    So who had bopped Joe on the head? Why had he been snatched? Joe knew he'd never find out if he didn't get away.
    Although his head hurt when he turned, Joe looked around, trying to spot something he could use to cut the ropes. A fragment of a vase might do, but the vases were across the room and out of reach. If he'd been closer, he could have knocked one over.
    He glanced to the left, then to the right.
    Sure, he had enough room on each side of him. Joe shifted his weight, first one way, then the other. With luck, and patience, he could tip this chair over. It was an antique and didn't look all that sturdy. The fall ought to break it, and then he could slip free of the bonds.
    Every time he rocked, the throbbing in his head got worse. He kept at it, anyway.
    Finally, after what felt like half an hour, Joe succeeded in getting the old wooden chair to fall to the right. It hit the cement floor hard. Joe winced at the jolt, jagged little lightning bolts of pain shooting around behind his tight-shut eyes.
    But he also heard the satisfying sound of wood cracking and splintering.
    Joe strained against his bonds. Yes, one arm of the chair was shattered. He could move his right hand. He wiggled, twisted, and succeeded in working free of the twists of plastic line. He stood at last, shedding rope and fragments of chair.
    Glancing at the closed door, Joe grabbed a chair leg and hid in the shadows. He'd made a lot of noise getting free. It was possible somebody would burst in on him.
    But no one appeared.
    Very carefully and quietly Joe picked his way across the room. Finally he reached the single entrance, a blank wooden door.
    Dropping to one knee, he risked a peek through the rusty keyhole. All he could tell about the next room was that it was also a storeroom, just about as cluttered and poorly lit as the one he was in. No reason to stay here, he decided. To his surprise, the door wasn't locked. Joe turned the knob very slowly, pushed the door open, and crossed into the next room. "Hello, Joe," said a vaguely familiar voice. He spun, giving himself a new pain in his skull. "Jeanne Sinclair," he said.
    A pretty, dark-haired young woman was sitting on an old-fashioned striped sofa. Joe noticed she wasn't tied.
    "So what's the story?" he asked. "Are you really into old-fashioned furniture, or were you just waiting for me to wake up and lead the way out?"
    Jeanne shrugged, staring down at her hands clasped tight in her lap. "I — I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know what to do."
    "Well, we'd better start deciding." Still rubbing his aching head, Joe looked around the tiny room. At the far side was still another wooden door. Joe pointed, asking, "Is that door locked?"
    "That one isn't, no," Jeanne answered. She stayed huddled on the old sofa, her voice low.
    "But the door on the other side of that one is made out of solid steel—and it's locked and