For a moment nothing happened, and then Storm reeled, gasping, into the far corner. His nostrils stung with the pungent fumes of liquid ammonia, he choked and coughed and writhed, his eyes were a streaming agony of blindness. "Yew try again, ya big cheese," taunted Lew from the other taxi. "Try again, ya big stiff, an' I'll flop yuh wit' anot'er squoit--jest fer bendin' some lead into ole Lew's leg, youse!" "All right, ole Lew," muttered Storm, panting. "We'll argue about that later! Hully gee--that stuff's worse than slumber mixture!" He took no more pot shots, but concentrated on getting the pain out of his eyes and regaining vision, for he badly wanted to know where they were taking him, and he had no wish at all to be helpless when they brought him into the presence of the Apex. When he could see again, he found that they were travelling down a street of imposing, austere houses, and it was only a couple of seconds before he had oriented himself. He saw Wellington Barracks on his left, and half a minute later the taxi whisked down a side street and turned into a mews, Mecklen's cab following. The second cab stopped, Lew got down and opened the door of one of the garages, and Storm was driven right in. Through the back window Kit saw the door barred behind them, and then Mecklen came round and poked the nozzle of his ammonia syringe through the broken window. "T'row out yore gat," he commanded. "I can't unless you open something," Storm pointed out. This fact hadn't occurred to Lew, and after a while the door was moved a cautious three inches. "T'row it out." Storm obeyed, and the door was fully opened and the ammonia jet stuck into his face. "Git down--an' no rough stuff, or I'll draown yuh wit' this." Storm got out, smiling amusedly at the apprehensive care with which Lew trained the spray on his every movement. Storm's jaw was thrust forward, his cigarette canted almost vertically, his lips, drawn up at the corners, showed a gleam of white teeth. Everything functioned exactly as per invoice. He was in the enemy's camp, and every muscle in his body was tingling with joyous anticipation. "Frisk 'im," snapped Mecklen. Arden opened his arms as a habitual criminal does in the police station, and the first taxi-driver came up and searched him. The taxi-driver was not gentle or squeamish, for the bullet which had zipped past his ear had alarmed him considerably, and he made what he thought was a thorough fanning. That he found nothing was not his fault; he even prodded Storm in the small of the back, doubtless with memories of the Marlborough Street episode, but drew blank. Storm had sixteen-inch biceps, and the chain mail he wore effectively disguised the outline of his arm-holsters. At length the chauffeur stepped back and signified that he was satisfied, but Lew did not lower the squirt. "Over thar--by thet cupboard," he ordered. "Start anyt'ing, an' I'll douse yuh!"