"Huh!" ejaculated Monk, wrinkling his flat, apish nose. "That don't tell us any more than the first one."

"Exactly," Doc replied. "And that explains why I have not informed you fellows what we're headed for. I don't know myself — except that it has something to do with the Orient.

"Juan Mindoro is a political power in the Pacific island group known as the Luzon Union. He is the most influential man in the island. And you know what recently happened to the Luzon Union."

"They were given their independence," said Ham. "I

remember now. Juan Mindoro had a big hand in electing the first president after the island group became self-governing. But what could that have to do with this?"

Doc shrugged. "It is too early to say."

He glanced at the television scanning disk . "The men who tried to bomb us are gone. We might as well get under way.

The submarine arose to the surface. The pall of black smoke still hung over the Sound.

Doc pulled in the television box which had been trailing he boat. Then the sub put on speed. It ran low in the water o escape attention from passing boats.

Once it dived to pass a launch loaded with newspaper reporters.

PRACTICALLY every wharf in New York City was watched by newspaper reporters that night. The return of a submarine which had ventured under the polar ice was big news. The fact that those aboard the submarine wished no publicity made the story bigger. Each paper wanted to be the first to carry it.

Forty or so men had gone into the arctic — only six were coming back. A whale of a yarn! City editors swore over telephones at reporters. Photographers dashed about, answering false alarms turned in by news hawks who had mistaken rowboats and mud scows for the sub. Everybody lost a lot of sleep.

In a remote corner of the harbor, a rusty old tramp steamer swung at anchor. The captain of the ancient hulk, who was also the owner, happened to be an acquaintance of Doc Savage.

Shortly after midnight, this captain turned all of his crew out of their bunks. They fell to and made the submarine Helldiver fast alongside the tramp steamer. No one from and noted this incident.

A launch now sped ashore. It bore a small fortune in gold and diamonds — a load of the treasure Doc had brought back from the arctic. An armored car and a dozen guards with drawn guns met the launch and received the wealth. This also escaped the notice of the reporters.

The launch made more trips — until the whole treasure was on its way to an all-night bank.

Doc and his five men came ashore with the last load. Newspaper reporters would discover the submarine tied alongside the tramp steamer in the morning, but the tramp captain would profess mystification as to how it got there.

The whole arctic submarine expedition business was destined to be a mystery the news hawks would never solve.

A taxicab took Doc and his five men uptown. Doc rode outside, barehead. standing on the running board. He habitually did that when danger threatened. From this position, Doc's weird golden eyes missed very little — a sniper had hardly a chance of getting a shot at them before he was discovered.

The cab halted before the most impressive building in the city. This skyscraper stabbed upward, a great white thorn of brick and steel, nearly a hundred stories.

Few people were on the sidewalk at this hour. But those who were, stopped and openly stared, such a striking figure did Doc Savage present. The big bronze man was a sensation wherever he went.

Doc and his five men rode an express elevator to the eighty-sixth floor of the skyscraper. Here Doc had his New York headquarters — a richly furnished office, one of the most complete libraries of technical and scientific tomes in existence, and an elaborately equipped chemical and electrical laboratory.

Doc had a second headquarters, fitted with another library and laboratory which were the most complete in existence. This, however, was at a spot he called his "Fortress of Solitude." No one knew its whereabouts. To this retreat Doc went at frequent intervals for the periods of intense study to which he devoted himself. At such times he vanished as completely as though he had dropped from the earth. No one could get in touch with him.

It was these periodic disappearances, as much as anything else, which had given Doc repute as a man of mystery.

MONK planted his furry bulk on a costly inlaid table in the office and began rolling himself a cigarette.

"Did you make arrangements by radio about the treasure?" he asked Doc. "I mean — about what the money is to be used for."

"That's all taken care of," the bronze man assured him.

They knew what that meant. The money was to be spent enlarging a weird institution which Doc maintained in upstate New York — a place where Doc sent all the criminals he captured. There, the lawbreakers underwent an amazing treatment in which their brains were operated upon and all memory of their past wiped out. Then they received training which turned them into useful citizens.

This unusual institution was Doc's own idea. He never sent a criminal to prison. They all went to the institution, to be operated upon by specialists whom Doc had trained. They were turned loose entirely reformed men — they didn't know they had ever been crooks.

"It's a little stuffy in here," complained Ham.

He crossed over and threw up the window. He stood there for a moment, staring at the impressive panorama of New York City spread out below. Then he turned away.

A moment later, a slate-colored pigeon fluttered up and landed on the window ledge. Doc and his men paid no particular heed. Pigeons were plentiful around the skyscrapers.

"What's our next move?" Ham wanted to know.

"You fellows scatter and attend to such of your private business as needs it," Doc suggested. "We've been gone several weeks, and no telling what we're headed for now. It may last longer."

"I got a secretary who takes care of my business," homely Monk grinned. "Better let me go with you, Doc."

Monk was proud of his secretary, maintaining she was the prettiest in New York.

"Nothing doing," said Doc. "There's no need of any army of us interviewing Juan Mindoro."

The slate-hued pigeon on the window ledge had not moved.

"You know where to find Juan Mindoro?" questioned Monk.

"His wireless message said he had gone into hiding at the home of the man who was with him when I saw him last," Doc replied. "I last met Juan Mindoro in Mantilla, the capital city of the Luzon Union. The man with him at the time was Scott S. Osborn, who is a sugar importer doing a large business in the Luzon Union trade. Osborn has a home near the north edge of the city. I'll go there."

Johnny had been squinting owlishly through his glasses which had the thick left lens — studying the pigeon. He took off his spectacles. As a matter of fact, he saw very well without them.

"That's — what I call a sleepy pigeon!" he grunted. "It hasn't moved."

Doc glanced at the pigeon — his gaze became fixed.

Suddenly, a weird sound permeated the interior of the office; a trilling, mellow, subdued sound. It might have been the dulcet note of some exotic jungle bird, or the sylvan song of wind filtering through a leafless forest.

The strange trilling had the weird quality of seeming to come from everywhere within the office.

Electric tension seized Doc's five men They knew what that sound meant. Danger!

For the sound was part of Doc — a small, unconscious thing that he did in moments of mental stress, or when he had made some astounding discovery, or when death threatened.