Kenneth Robeson - Quest of the Spider

The evil master knew the fly stings meant his finish. He screamed as the small creatures bit into his flesh; he tried to beat them off his face, tearing off the gaudy silk covering that served for a mask.

It was then that Doc and his men saw the features of this man who called himself the Gray Spider, They had reached the end of the passage, were going through the door which closed off the barred cells.

Just as they were about to step through, the screaming maniac behind them tripped on his own long robe, fell head-foremost on the floor. The bloodthirsty, poisonous flies swarmed about his distorted features, inflicting death with every thrust.

Only a moment did Doc and his men look at that agonized face; only a moment was needed to recognize the features of this master devil who plotted so skillfully, with such dire cruelty.

In that moment, Doc and his companions in adventure saw the one person whom few would suspect. It was the face of Silas Bunnywell—and the screams were the voice of Silas Bunnywell, the voice which, a short while ago, they recognized as having heard before.

Silas Bunnywell, old and decrepit bookkeeper for Big Eric's concern, was the Gray Spider!

With a mighty slam, Doc shut the door upon the leader and the ringleaders of the Cult of the Moccasin. The death they had planned for others would be fit punishment for themselves!

IT took but short minutes to unlock the barred cell doors. They found a ring of keys on a peg near the corridor end.

Pitiful indeed was the array of prisoners who stumbled forth. Some had been there years, their sobbed testimonials of delight and gratitude disclosed. The Gray Spider, it seemed, had been operating a long time, and only of late had become bold enough to throw his insidious web about the largest lumber companies of the South for the grand cleanup.

Most moving of all, perhaps, was the simple statement of thanks which beautiful Edna Danielsen gave Doc Savage as the bedraggled cavalcade quitted the Castle of the Moccasin. The gripping part of her expression was not the commonplace words, but the depths of feeling that went into them. There was a sort of joy and hopelessness intermingled—as though she finally understood that she must keep hidden forever the emotions her heart held for the mighty man of bronze.

Monk expressed it. He usually had a description for everything.

"It's tough for her to fall like that," said Monk. "For the woman isn't made who can get a rise out of Doc."

* * *

OUTSIDE, in the steaming sunlight of the swamp, tension fell from the adventurers. Their work here was done.

Standing a little apart, the giant bronze man looked thoughtfully into the north.

He was thinking of the face of the Gray Spider, the face of the old bookkeeper—Silas Bunnywell—as he lay on the floor, victim of his own evil!