Jupiter sighed his relief. He turned to Mike. “That just about scared me out of my wits. Do they always play that rough?”

“It scared me too when I first saw them at it,” Mike admitted. “But I’m used to it now. George is so well-trained, he acts like a big overgrown puppy. You can see how good-natured he really is, now.”

Jupe narrowed his eyes. “But Mr. Hitchcock said —” He turned to the tall man stroking the lion’s chest. “Mr. Hall, we’re The Three Investigators. Alfred Hitchcock told us you were having trouble, that your lion was nervous for some reason.”

“That’s right, son,” Jim Hall said. “Take what happened here. Ol’ George never acted that way before. He knows Mike and never should have come on that mean and ornery. I’ve brought him up, so naturally he listens to me, but lately he hasn’t been dependable, at all.”

“Maybe we can find out why,” Jupe offered. “That wound on his leg, for example. Does that strike you as an accident?”

“What do you mean?”

“It looked like a slashing cut,” Jupe said. “Something that could have been made by a long, sharp instrument — a machete, for instance.”

The man nodded. “Yes. But —”

“When we arrived, we mistook another man for you, sir. He led us out here and he was wielding a machete —”

“It was Hank Morton,” Mike interrupted. “Jupe described him to me. He must have let George loose.”

Jim Hall’s jaw set grimly. “Hank Morton was here? When I fired him, I warned him not to come back.” He looked at his lion, puzzled. “Somebody let George out. It might have been Hank. You say he brought you out here?”

“Yes,” Bob put in. “Then he left us and went off into the high grass, telling us to wait.”

“If he used to handle your lion, maybe he was able to get close enough to wound him with that machete, and make him mad enough to go for us,” Pete said.

“If he did,” Jim Hall said angrily, “that will be Hank Morton’s last trick. Because if I don’t catch up with him for that, George will!”

He tugged at the lion’s ears affectionately. “Come on, boy. We’re going to have Doc Dawson take a look at you.”

Mike answered Jupe’s inquiring look. “Doc Dawson is our veterinarian. An animal doctor. He takes care, of George and all our other animals here.”

Jim Hall led his lion off through the jungle. “Come along, boys. I’ll fill you in on what’s been happening when we get back to the house. Alfred Hitchcock said you fellows were pretty good at unravelling mysteries. Maybe you can spot what’s wrong. Because sure as shooting, something is going on around here that I can’t figure out.”

“Here we are.”

Jim Hall stopped at a small covered van parked on a side road. He dropped the tail-board, urged George up, then fastened it in place.

“Come on,” Mike said to Jupe and his friends. “We’ll sit up front with Jim.”

The Jungle Land owner got behind the wheel and started the vehicle. As he backed and turned the van round, Jupe leaned forward.

“How did George get out, Mr. Hall? Where do you usually keep him — in his own compound?”

Jim Hall shook his head. “He stays in our house — with Mike and me. I don’t know how he got out unless Hank Morton saw me leave. He could have let him out then. George was used to him being around so that would have been no problem. Once George was out, he could have wandered anywhere. That’s what had me worried,” he added, his lips tightening.

He followed the narrow, winding road up a hill and swung up a gravel drive leading to a large white house.

“Here we are,” he announced. “Run inside and call Doc Dawson, will you, Mike?”

As Mike jumped off, Jupiter looked around in surprise. “Is this where you live? We thought that first one we came to — the bunkhouse —”

“That’s for show,” Jim Hall answered, smiling. “People come to Jungle Land for a lot of reasons. It’s an animal farm and ranch, and we throw in a bit of the old Wild West for them, too. Sometimes we use the place for filming movies. One is being shot right now, matter of fact — a jungle picture.”

“So Mr. Hitchcock told us,” Jupe said. “He led us to believe that was your concern at the moment, your lion not being trustworthy while a movie was being made here.”

“Correct,” Hall said. “George happens to be rented out, too, for the production. If he forgets he’s supposed to be gentle and doesn’t respond to my commands, Jay Eastland might lose a valuable leading man.”

“Who’s Jay Eastland?” Bob asked.

“That name sounds familiar,” Pete said. “My dad does special effects for film companies. I’m sure I’ve heard him mention Jay Eastland’s name.”

Jim Hall said, “Eastland is a very important film producer and director— at least, he thinks he is.”

He turned to unfasten the tail-board of the van. Mike Hall, who had just come out of the house, whistled and pointed to an approaching cloud of dust.

“Here comes trouble, Uncle Jim,” he called.

Jim Hall looked up, his brow darkening. “Trouble is right—here it comes in the person of Mr. Eastland himself.”

The cloud of dust cleared to reveal a station wagon. In a few seconds it pulled up and stopped. A short, beefy, bald-headed man hopped out of the back seat. He advanced with jerky steps, his face flushed and angry.

“Hall,” he shouted, “I’m holding you to the terms of our contract.”

Jim Hall looked down at the perspiring director. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eastland. “What’s up?”

Eastland shook his fist at the animal owner. “That contract states no danger to myself or my people, remember? I guess you have a good explanation for what’s happened?”

Jim Hall’s eyebrows flew up. “My contract and agreement stand,” he said coldly. “What happened?”

“Rock Randall’s been hurt,” Eastland yelled. “One of your animals got loose and attacked him — that’s what happened!”

“That’s impossible!” Hall said firmly.

The angry visitor pointed accusingly at the big lion in the rear of the van.

“There’s all the proof I need, right there! Your pet lion! I happen to know he was loose and roaming around an hour ago. I’d like to hear you deny it!”

“You’re right, Eastland. George was loose for a time. But that’s no proof he attacked Randall. I can’t believe it.”

“You’ll believe it when you see him,” Eastland sneered.

“Is he hurt badly?” asked Hall quickly.

Eastland shrugged. “Let’s say that being attacked by a bad-tempered lion doesn’t do anybody any good.”

Jim Hall’s lips tightened. “Now, hold on there. We still don’t know for certain George did it.”

“Who else could do a job like that? Wait till you see —”

“I’m going to do that right now,” Jim Hall snapped. “Just as soon as I lock George in the house.”

As he lowered the tail-board, a horn sounded. A, small old lorry came bouncing around the turn.

“It’s Doc Dawson,” Mike Hall whispered to the boys.

The driver braked to a skidding halt and jumped out. He was tall and thin. Under his grizzled moustache jutted the stub of an unlit cigar. He hurried towards the group with long strides, carrying a black leather medical bag.

The visitor stopped as he saw the lion in the van. Ignoring Eastland, he addressed Jim Hall in a gruff voice. “Got here as fast as I could, Jim, after Mike’s call. What’s that about George being hurt?”

“Flesh wound on his leg, Doc,” Jim answered. “Somebody let George out while Mike and I were away. We rounded him up north of the bunkhouse.”

“It looks like somebody cut him with a knife or machete, Doc,” Mike Hall put in.

The angular vet turned to Mike, frowning. “Who could have done that to old George? I’d better have a look. Hold him steady for me, will you, Jim?”

The vet leaned forward as Jim Hall held the lion’s mane. “Let’s have a look, Georgie, boy,” the vet said softly.