“Hold out your hands, Bat, while I put on the bracelets,” commanded the Unknown in tones of terse triumph. He snapped the steel cuffs on the wrists of the murderous prowler. “Sometimes even the cleverest Bat comes through a window at night and is caught. Double murder—burglary—and arson! That’s a good night’s work even for you, Bat!” He switched his flashlight on the Bat’s masked face. As he did so the house lights came on; the electric light company had at last remembered its duties. All blinked for an instant in the sudden illumination. “Take off that handkerchief!” barked the Unknown, motioning at the black silk handkerchief that still hid the face of the Bat from recognition. Bailey stripped it from the haggard, desperate features with a quick movement—and stood appalled. A simultaneous gasp went up from Dale and Miss Cornelia. It was Anderson, the detective! And he was—the Bat! “It’s Mr. Anderson!” stuttered Dale, aghast at the discovery. The Unknown gloated over his captive. “_I’m_ Anderson,” he said. “This man has been impersonating me. You’re a good actor, Bat, for a fellow that’s such a _bad_ actor!” he taunted. “How did you get the dope on this case? Did you tap the wires to headquarters?” The Bat allowed himself a little sardonic smile. “I’ll tell you that when I—” he began, then, suddenly, made his last bid for freedom. With one swift, desperate movement, in spite of his handcuffs, he jerked the real Anderson’s revolver from him by the barrel, then wheeling with lightning rapidity on Bailey, brought the butt of Anderson’s revolver down on his wrist. Bailey’s revolver fell to the floor with a clatter. The Bat swung toward the door. Again the tables were turned! “Hands up, everybody!” he ordered, menacing the group with the stolen pistol. “Hands up—you!” as Miss Cornelia kept her hands at her sides. It was the greatest moment of Miss Cornelia’s life. She smiled sweetly and came toward the Bat as if the pistol aimed at her heart were as innocuous as a toothbrush. “Why?” she queried mildly. “I took the bullets out of that revolver two hours ago.” The Bat flung the revolver toward her with a curse. The real Anderson instantly snatched up the gun that Bailey had dropped and covered the Bat. “Don’t move!” he warned, “or I’ll fill you full of lead!” He smiled out of the corner of his mouth at Miss Cornelia who was primly picking up the revolver that the Bat had flung at her—her own revolver. “You see—you never know what a woman will do,” he continued. Miss Cornelia smiled. She broke open the revolver, five loaded shells fell from it to the floor. The Bat stared at her—then stared incredulously at the bullets. “You see,” she said, “I, too, have a little imagination!” CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE QUITE A COLLECTION