THE ROENTGEN RAYS.
"I tell you, Sturgis, it is a wonderful discovery. I don't know what applications may ultimately be made of it in other branches of science; but I am convinced that it is bound to cause a revolution in surgical diagnosis," said Doctor Thurston enthusiastically.
"Yes," replied Sturgis, "I have no doubt that Roentgen's rays will be of great assistance to the surgeon in the examination of fractures and in the location of foreign bodies which cannot be reached by the probe."
"As a proof of that, I must show you a beautiful photograph which I have just made. After leaving you on New Year's morning, I found a patient asleep in my office. He had been waiting several hours. It was the usual case of a pistol in the hands of a fool friend, who did not know it was loaded; and of course with the usual result—a bullet wound in my patient."
Sturgis was listening in an absent-minded way while his friend spoke.
"The wound was not severe; no bones broken. The bullet had entered the palm of the left hand and had passed up into the forearm."
A sudden light came into the reporter's eyes; but he maintained his listless attitude.
"Well, sir, probe as I would, I was unable to locate that bullet. At last I concluded to try the Roentgen rays, and here is the result. It is as pretty a shadow photograph as I have yet seen."
So saying, Doctor Thurston handed the reporter a photograph, which the latter studied carefully in silence.
"Notice how clearly you can see the peculiar shape into which the bullet has been flattened," said the physician.
"Yes," replied Sturgis, "I was observing that. Have you a duplicate of this that you can spare?"
"Yes; keep that one if you wish."
"Thank you; I am very glad to have it. Did you succeed in extracting the bullet?"
"I have not tried yet. I had to develop the photograph first."
"Of course. When do you expect the red-haired young man to return?"
"He promised to come back yesterday, but he failed to do so," replied Doctor Thurston. Then suddenly:
"But who said anything about his being young or red-haired?"
"Not you certainly, old man," replied Sturgis, smiling. "Don't worry; you have not voluntarily betrayed any professional secret. But, for all that, your patient is wanted by the police. He was bound to fall into their hands before long. The only effect of this discovery will be to hasten the dénouement. I had traced him to your house, and I knew how he was wounded; so that I recognized him as soon as you mentioned his case."
"Who is he?" asked Thurston. "I am sure I have seen him somewhere before; but I cannot remember where."
Whereupon the reporter related the story of Chatham's connection with the Knickerbocker bank case.
THE QUARRY.
Half an hour later, Sturgis was walking briskly down Broadway, with his usual air of absent-minded concentration. Presently he turned into a side street and at once slackened his pace. He now sauntered along like a lounger at a loss how to kill a long idle day. The show window of a bric-à-brac shop arrested his attention. He stopped to examine its contents.
A little farther up the street was a liquor saloon, outside of which stood a group of boisterous young rowdies. An older man, evidently in his cups, was seated on an adjoining stoop, where, with maudlin gravity, he seemed to be communing with himself.
On the opposite side of the way stood a low, dilapidated brick house. A painted sign over the windows of the ground floor bore the name, "MANHATTAN CHEMICAL CO."
The drunken man rose unsteadily to his feet and approached Sturgis with outstretched hand.
"Say, Jimmy, get on ter his nibs strikin' de bloke fur a nickel ter git med'cine fur his sick mudder," exclaimed one of the young ruffians.
The wretched-looking individual thus designated seemed hardly able to stand as he steadied himself against an iron railing; but the eyes he turned upon Sturgis were bright with intelligence, and the words he spoke were uttered in a low, firm voice.
"He's been here—been here twice."
"Twice?" echoed Sturgis, surprised. "Where is he now?"
"I don't know——"
"You don't know?"
"No, sir; but I guess Conklin does. This is how it is: It was my watch yesterday afternoon when Chatham came the first time. He went into the Manhattan Company's place through the basement at a quarter after five. So I just settled myself out here and waited. Well, I waited and waited, but there wasn't any sign of Chatham, and when Flagler came along to relieve me at ten o'clock Chatham hadn't come out yet. Flagler he spotted the place until six this morning, and then Conklin took his turn again until two o'clock, when I came on for my watch. Just as Conklin was telling me how things stood, who should come down the street but Chatham himself, large as life."
"Down the street?" exclaimed Sturgis.
"Yes, sir. And up he goes, as if nothing had happened, and into the Manhattan Chemical Company's place again."
"He had put up the back-door game on you," said the reporter.
"Yes, sir; just what I said to Conklin. So, quick as a wink, I sent him around the block to keep his eye peeled on the next street and I waited here. And here I've been ever since. If Conklin isn't on the block above, it must be because Chatham has made tracks again, and he after him."
"I'll go and find out," said Sturgis. "Has any one else called at the Manhattan Chemical Company's office since you have been on watch?"
"No, sir; but a couple of hours ago an express wagon came along and delivered a long wooden box; might have been chemicals for the wholesale department, for it was lowered to the cellar by the hoist in the areaway. The blond young man receipted for the box."
"Very well, Shrady. Hang on a little while longer, and I shall have you relieved just as soon as I possibly can."
So saying, the reporter, who had been pretending to look through his pockets for a coin, ostentatiously slipped a nickel into the outstretched palm before him. The light seemed to die out of the sharp eyes of the detective, and it was the miserable drunkard who staggered back to his place on the stoop next to the saloon, unmindful of the gibes of the young rowdies congregated there.
Sturgis walked up to the next street, where he found a second detective on duty.
"Anything new, Conklin?" he asked.
"No, sir; he's been lying low; looks like he knew he was spotted this time."
"Good. Stay here until I can notify the police that we have run down the quarry. It will be necessary to obtain a search warrant for the Manhattan Chemical Company's place. In the meantime, if Chatham should attempt to make tracks, hang on to him like his shadow and send back word here as soon as you can."
"All right, sir."
Sturgis, after leaving Conklin, walked along the street which the detective was watching and carefully inspected every house on the block. Almost all were huge office buildings; but here and there an old-fashioned brown-stone front stood out conspicuously against the broad expanse of brick walls and iron columns. Half way down the street one of these old houses stood well back from the street line behind a small garden. The reporter stopped near this and read the numbers on the adjoining buildings.
"This is directly back of the Manhattan Chemical Company's office," he mused. "I wonder who lives here. It looks like a respectable place enough. One could obtain a good view of the rear of the Manhattan Chemical Company's office from the back windows. H'm——"
He stood thoughtfully considering what pretext he could use to gain admission to the house, when suddenly he became aware of the presence of a man who had approached with noiseless steps.
"Ah, is that you, Mr. Sturgis?" said the calm, sardonical voice of Doctor Murdock.
The reporter started inwardly but gave no outward sign of surprise.
"Were you about to do me the honor of calling?" continued the chemist.
"Yes," said Sturgis, deliberately; "I was about to seek an interview with you. Can you spare a few minutes?"
"Who is it that asks for the interview?" inquired Murdock, with quiet sarcasm. "Is it Mr. Sturgis, gentleman, Mr. Sturgis, reporter, or——"
Sturgis met a cold gleam from Murdock's inscrutable eyes.
"Or Mr. Sturgis, the famous detective?" continued the chemist with an imperceptible sneer.
"I represent theTempest," replied the reporter quietly.
Murdock glanced carelessly up and down the street. There was no one in sight.
"Oh! very well," he said, taking out his latch-key and leading the way to the house; "come into my study and let me hear what I can do for theTempest."
On entering the house, Murdock motioned Sturgis to the door leading from the hall into the drawing-room.
"If you will step into the parlor for a few minutes, I shall be with you directly," said he.
Sturgis nodded acquiescence, and, while Murdock walked toward his study, which was at the extreme rear of the hall, the reporter opened the drawing-room door. He did not open it very wide, however, neither did he enter; for although the room was rather dark, his quick eye caught a passing glimpse of a feminine head cosily nestled upon a distinctly masculine shoulder, the owner of which had his back turned to him. Bachelor cynic though he was, Sturgis had not the heart to interrupt so interesting a situation; and, as the couple were so absorbed that they had not noticed the intrusion upon their tête-à-tête, he discreetly retreated and softly closed the door.
By this time Murdock had passed into his study, so that Sturgis found himself alone in the hall. He was glad of a short respite during which he might collect his thoughts; for, having been taken by surprise, he had not had time to select a plausible topic for the interview which he had solicited from Murdock. Not knowing that the house was that of the chemist, his sole object had been to gain admittance, so that he might be able to observe the Manhattan Chemical Company's offices from the rear, and if possible to ascertain how Chatham had managed to give the detectives the slip the first time he appeared to them.
Now that he was in the house the reporter was confronted with the necessity of explaining his presence there without betraying his true purpose. This would not have been a difficult matter had the inmates of the house been total strangers; but he felt that it would be by no means so easy to offer an explanation which would be satisfactory to a man of Murdock's keen perception. And Murdock was the last person to whom he would have confided the true reason of his visit; not only because the chemist, as his opponent in the wager concerning the Knickerbocker Bank Mystery, was interested in thwarting rather than in aiding his investigation, but chiefly because he felt a strong instinctive distrust of the man.
As these thoughts were passing through the reporter's mind, he slowly paced the long hall, back and forth, with his hands behind his back. In so doing, he passed a door which was slightly ajar and caught a glimpse of long rows of book-shelves loaded with beautifully bound editions. The place was evidently the library. It occurred to him that a library is a public room and that he would be more comfortable in there than in the hall.
He pushed open the door and looked in. The room was empty. He entered.
The library occupied a space between the parlor and the rear room into which Murdock had entered, and it was separated from each of these rooms by folding-doors over which hung heavy portières.
Sturgis was a lover of books; his interest was at once aroused in the collection before him. It was admirably selected from the standpoint of a philosopher and a man of science. Every department of history, of philosophy and of science had its section, in which the volumes were classified and arranged with intelligent care. But curiously enough, poetry and art were but meagerly represented.
One section especially attracted Sturgis's attention. It was devoted entirely to the history of crime in all its phases and in all ages. Criminal statistics, criminal jurisprudence and the psychology of crime, as well as the biographies of all the noted criminals of ancient and modern times, were completely represented. Almost the only works of fiction in the collection were in this section, and included every book imaginable concerning criminals and their deeds. Many rare and curious volumes were there—some of them so rare that they could be found in only a few of the great libraries of the world.
Here Sturgis was in his element. He had himself collected a valuable library on the subjects kindred to his profession; but here were books many of which none but a Crœsus could ever hope to own. He was soon absorbed in an examination of some rare volumes which he had often longed to possess.
While thus engaged, he became aware of the murmur of voices from the rear room. As the words spoken could not be distinguished, he paid no special attention to them; but, instinctively, he noted that one of the voices flowed in the calm, even tones so characteristic of Murdock's speech, while the other, whose timbre and modulations were unknown to him, betrayed the repressed excitement of the speaker.
It soon became evident that Murdock's interlocutor was fast losing control of himself; for he gradually pitched his voice in a higher key, until occasional words began to reach Sturgis's ears. The reporter was not the man to wantonly play the part of eavesdropper; therefore, although the isolated words which reached him brought no connected sense, he judged that it was time to move out of earshot of the conversation to which he was becoming an involuntary listener. Replacing upon its shelf the book which he had been examining, he started toward the hall door. As he did so, he heard the now thoroughly excited individual exclaim in loud tones:
"I don't care a damn for the money. I only went into the scheme because you promised she'd have me; and, by God, if I don't get her, I'll give the whole cursed thing away."
Sturgis, who had reached the hall door, pricked up his detective's ears at these words. But in another second he heard the knobs of the folding-doors rattle, as though some one had placed his hands upon them.
Quick as thought, he opened the door and glided out into the hallway. He had not time to pull the door quite to behind him when the folding-doors opened and he heard Murdock say in his calm, frigid tones:
"Perhaps you have done that already with your dulcet voice."
Had Murdock seen him? The reporter asked himself the question. Probably not; for he heard the folding-doors close once more.
THE EXTENSION.
A few minutes later, Sturgis, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the paintings which hung in the hall, heard the door of Murdock's study open softly. Although the reporter did not turn his head, he at once became conscious that the chemist's piercing eyes were fixed upon him. The observation lasted so long that Sturgis, self-possessed as was his wont, was beginning to feel a trifle nervous, when at last Doctor Murdock broke the silence.
"I have to apologize for leaving you standing in the hall, Mr. Sturgis. I was under the impression that I had invited you to step into the parlor."
The words, courteous in themselves, conveyed to the hearer an impression of biting sarcasm.
"I found the parlor already occupied; I hesitated to disturb a tête-à-tête," replied Sturgis quietly.
Murdock eyed him narrowly for a moment, and then invited him into the study.
The chemist's study was a spacious room, plainly but luxuriously furnished, and containing every convenience and comfort calculated to lighten the labor of a busy man. The table, littered with books and papers, stood near a small safe and almost directly opposite the hall door. Speaking-tubes and electric call buttons were within reach of the occupant of the easy chair, and probably placed him in communication with the various portions of the household; while a telephone on one side and a typewriter on the other showed that the chemist kept in touch also with the outside world.
Murdock's interlocutor, whoever he had been, had disappeared. But how? The question interested Sturgis, and his mind at once began to seek an answer to it.
There were three doors leading from the study. One of these was the one by which Murdock and Sturgis had just entered from the hall. No one could have passed out that way without meeting them.
Then there were the folding-doors leading into the library; but, as the door leading from the library to the hall had remained slightly ajar, Sturgis felt sure that he would have heard the man had he gone out by that way.
The third door led to a small extension.
"He must have gone into the extension," thought Sturgis.
The only alternative was an exit through the windows. This in itself would not have presented any special difficulty; for the distance to the flagging below was hardly more than twelve or thirteen feet. But the yard, which was of diminutive size on account of the space allotted to the garden on the street, was inclosed by an unusually high fence protected by a row of sharp and closely set spikes. These looked so formidable that the thought of any one attempting to scale the fence instantly suggested visions of impaled wretches writhing in Oriental tortures. The only possible exit from the yard, therefore, seemed to be through the basement; that is to say, past the kitchen and the servants' department.
All these thoughts flashed through the reporter's brain in a small fraction of the time which is required to record them. They occurred to him unbidden, while his conscious efforts were centered upon discovering how Chatham had managed to escape from the rear of the Manhattan Chemical Company's building.
This Sturgis recognized without much difficulty. It was directly in line with the house in which he now was, and its yard did not differ from the neighboring ones, the fences of which could be scaled without much trouble. Chatham evidently might have passed into any one of several buildings which lacked the protection of the formidable spikes that so effectually guarded the approach to Murdock's house from the rear.
One point, however, was puzzling. Why should Chatham take the trouble and the risk of scaling fences in broad daylight, only to return a few hours later by the street door under the very noses of the detectives from whom he had presumably wished to escape? There seemed to be no plausible answer to this question.
But Sturgis was not given much time in which to consider it; for Murdock, who had waited for him to broach the subject of his interview, now coldly remarked:
"Perhaps, Mr. Sturgis, you will be good enough to inform me to what I owe the honor of this visit?"
Sturgis took as a pretext the first subject which came into his mind.
"Doctor," said he, "I have been told that you were engaged in a series of brilliant chemical researches; that you had proved, or were on the point of proving, that several, at least, of the so-called elementary metals are compounds; thus ushering in the realization of the dream of the alchemists—the transmutation of metals——"
"You have not come here to interview me on the subject of my chemical researches?" laughed Murdock.
"Why not?"
"Because I gave you credit for possessing the scientific spirit. A man spends years in making a series of exhaustive experiments, and refrains from advancing any theory until he has built up an elaborate monument of cold facts; and you ask him to make a premature report to be spread broadcast in a sensational sheet, with all the embellishments which an unbridled reportorial imagination can add to it. No sir, my report, when it is ready, will be made through the proper channels. I am surprised that one who passes for a man of science should be willing to make such a request."
If Murdock intended to gall the reporter, he succeeded; for, modest as he was, Sturgis prided himself above all things upon the scientific value of his work in all its aspects. He manifested no external sign of annoyance, however, as he answered with a smile:
"I am not a man of science now, but only a reporter."
"In that case," replied Murdock, "let us talk of something else. I should be pleased to discuss my chemical researches with Mr. Sturgis, the scientist; but with Mr. Sturgis, the reporter, I should prefer to talk about something in his line of knowledge; let me see, shall we say the Knickerbocker Bank Mystery, for instance?"
The reporter's ear detected the venomous sarcasm to which he was now accustomed from this strange man. He raised his eyes to those of the chemist, and for the space of a few seconds the two men looked steadily into each other's souls.
Then a sudden light flashed across Sturgis's brain, and he started perceptibly. At the same time, he thought he saw a shadow cross Murdock's impassive features; but in this he might have been mistaken, for when he looked again, the chemist was regarding him with an air of mild curiosity.
"Is anything the matter, Mr. Sturgis?" he asked.
"Only a sudden thought," carelessly replied Sturgis, who, to all appearances, had completely recovered from the momentary shock produced by the suddenness of the suspicion which had crossed his mind. "Your mention of the Knickerbocker Bank Mystery reminded me of something, that is all."
"Ever since Sprague's dinner," said Murdock, "I have been devoting all my spare time to the reading of theTempest, in the hope of finding there a sensational account, with glaring headlines, of the brilliant work of our 'distinguished reporter, Mr. Sturgis.'"
Sturgis made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the typewriter which stood near Murdock's desk.
"Up to the present time," continued Murdock, "I have not seen anything to cause me to worry about my stakes."
"I have still twenty-eight days in which to complete my case," said Sturgis.
"True," replied Murdock. "Well, I wish you luck. If I can render you any assistance in your investigations, I hope you will call upon me. In the cause of science I would willingly jeopardize my stakes. For instance, if you need to consult any works of reference, my library is at your disposal. I am told that, at least on the subjects in which you are interested, it is quite complete."
He observed the reporter narrowly, as if to mark the effect of his words.
"It is," replied Sturgis, after an almost imperceptible hesitation; "I have already admired it."
"Indeed?" said Murdock, arching his brows in mild surprise.
"Yes; I stepped into the library for a few minutes while I was waiting for you."
"Ah! yes; I see."
Murdock gave the reporter another searching look. Then he leant back in his easy chair with half-closed eyes and silently puffed away at his cigar for a few minutes.
Had Sturgis been able to read the sinister thoughts which were passing through the mind of this impassive man as he sat apparently in lazy enjoyment of his fragrant Havana, it is probable that he might have lost some of the interest which he seemed suddenly to have developed in the typewriter. But he was busy with his own train of thought and therefore was not paying any particular attention to Murdock.
Presently the chemist spoke again.
"On second thoughts, Mr. Sturgis, if you will step into my laboratory, I shall be pleased to show you those of the results of my recent researches which are ready for publication."
The reporter was surprised at this sudden change of front, and perhaps a trifle suspicious, for he was beginning to weld together many hitherto isolated facts into a strong chain which was leading him from the Knickerbocker bank and Chatham, through the Manhattan Chemical Company, to the emotionless man in whose presence he now stood. Some important links were missing, however, and Sturgis could not afford to lose any chance of making the chain complete.
He therefore accepted Murdock's invitation, in the hope of making some discovery which would throw positive light upon the somewhat hazy situation.
"Very well," said Murdock; "wait for me just one minute while I open the ventilators of the laboratory. It becomes pretty close in there when the place has been shut up for some time."
So saying, Murdock turned a crank which projected from the wall. A grating sound was heard, as of the rasping of metal upon metal. Then he returned to his desk, where he busied himself for a few minutes under pretext of looking for some notes of his experiments. When apparently he had found what he was seeking, he went toward the door of the extension. This was of massive hard wood. Before turning the knob, the chemist stooped as though to examine the lower hinge. Sturgis was not consciously following Murdock's movements. His mind was bent upon accomplishing a certain object; and, with that end in view, he was gradually drawing nearer to the typewriter. But so accustomed was he to receiving detailed impressions of all that occurred before his eyes, that the chemist's actions, unimportant as they seemed at the time, were unconsciously recorded upon the reporter's brain.
Murdock opened the door of the extension and passed out of the room. Sturgis, watching his chance, snatched up a sheet of paper from the table, inserted it in the typewriter, and rattled off something as fast as he could. Looking up when he had finished, he saw that Murdock had returned and was observing him with a sardonic grin.
"More happy thoughts?" he inquired.
"Yes," answered Sturgis, calmly folding the paper and slipping it into the pocket of his coat.
Murdock chuckled to himself, as if enjoying a quiet joke.
"Well," said he, "if you will do me the honor, we can step down into the laboratory."
Sturgis nodded and went toward the door which Murdock held open. As he passed the chemist, the reporter caught his eye, and, in a flash, read there some sinister purpose, which caused him to hesitate, on his guard.
At that moment there came a knock upon the hall door.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Murdock, "here comes an interruption, I suppose. Please step down stairs; I shall be with you directly."
With these words, he quietly but firmly shoved the reporter into the extension, and, with a rapid motion, pushed forward the door.
Sturgis almost lost his balance, but instinctively put out his foot between the door and the jamb. He felt a strong pressure from the outside; but he knew he was master of the situation and patiently bided his time. Presently the pressure ceased, and he was able to open the door.
Murdock wore an air of pained surprise.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"I have just remembered an important engagement," said Sturgis unruffled. "I fear, after all, that I shall be unable to visit your laboratory at present. I hope, however, that the pleasure is only postponed for a short time."
"I hope so," replied Murdock, calmly meeting his steady gaze.
All this had happened in the space of a few seconds. Meanwhile the knocking at the door was renewed.
"Come in," said Murdock, moving toward his easy chair.
The door opened and a servant appeared.
"Plaze, sur, Miss Agnes wud loike ter know kin yer resave her sum toime this afthernoon?"
"Yes, Mary; tell Miss Agnes I shall be in all the rest of the afternoon, and that I shall be at her disposal at any time."
Sturgis, picking up his hat and coat, hurried from the house.
"Why did he want to shut me in the extension?" he asked himself over and over, and he could find no satisfactory answer to the question.
Then he took from his pocket the lines he had written on Murdock's typewriter, and compared them carefully with those on the sheet which he had laboriously pieced together in the Knickerbocker bank on the previous day.
The result of the examination was apparently satisfactory; for, when Sturgis returned the papers to his pocket, his face wore an expression of calm but unmistakable triumph.
THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE.
As he reached the corner, Sturgis came upon Sprague, who was waiting for a car.
"Oh! I say, old man," exclaimed the artist, hardly able to conceal his elation, "I am glad to see you. I have news to tell you."
"So have I. But I am in a hurry now. Come along with me; we can exchange confidences on the way."
"Very well; whither are you bound?"
"I am on the track of big game. Can you spare a couple of hours? I think I can promise you an interesting afternoon."
"What is it? The Knickerbocker bank case?"
"Yes."
Sprague readily consented to accompany his friend.
"By the way," inquired Sturgis, "have you any weapons?"
"Any quantity of them among the properties of the studio," replied Sprague surprised; "but I do not go about armed in broad daylight."
"You would better have a revolver," said the reporter. "You will probably have no occasion to use it," he added in answer to his friend's glance, "but it is best to be on the safe side."
"Very well; I shall go home for one. Where am I to meet you?"
"At police headquarters in about half an hour. Let me see; it is now nearly five o'clock. Say at half-past five. It will be necessary to obtain a couple of warrants and the help of the police before we start."
After Sprague had left him, Sturgis approached Detective Conklin, who was still at his post.
"Has Chatham shown up while I was in there?" he asked, indicating Murdock's house.
"No, sir."
"Did you notice the man with whom I went in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, let Chatham go for the present and stick close to that man if he stirs from the house. I shall be back in less than an hour."
"All right, sir."
When Sprague reached police headquarters, he found the reporter ready to start with four detectives. He had not, therefore, any opportunity for conversation with his friend until the party reached its destination. There two of the detectives relieved the men previously on duty, while the others accompanied Sturgis and Sprague to the office of the Manhattan Chemical Company.
It was after six o'clock. The place was closed for the night and seemed quite deserted. One of the men rang the bell. The tinkling echoes died away, but no sign of life manifested itself from within. Then he seized the pull and plied it again repeatedly and vigorously.
"That will do," observed Sturgis presently; "the old woman is coming as fast as she can."
"What old woman?" asked the detective.
"I don't know. Perhaps I ought to have said an old woman. I hear her hobbling on the stairs."
The detective placed his ear to the keyhole. After listening attentively, he turned to the reporter with an incredulous smile.
"Well, Mr. Sturgis," said he, "if you can hear anything in there, your ears are sharper than mine. That's all I can say."
"She is on the second flight," replied the reporter quietly. "Now she is in the second-story hall,—and now you can surely hear her coming down the last flight."
By this time, sure enough, the sound of footsteps began to be audible to the other three men; and presently the door opened and disclosed the scared face of an old Irish woman.
"And phwat might yez be wantin', gintlemin, to be after scarin' an ould woman most to death wid yer ringin'?" she asked, somewhat aggressively.
"We want to see Mr. Chatham," replied one of the detectives.
"Mister who, is it?"
"Thomas Chatham. Show me the way to his room. I'll go right up, and my friends will wait for me here."
"Mister Thomuz Chathum, is it?" said the old woman; "well, ye've come to the wrong house to see him, I do be thinkin', fer he don't live here."
"Come, that won't do," said the detective sharply; "we belong to the police, and we saw Chatham enter this house."
At the mention of the police, the old hag's parchment face became a shade yellower and her eyes glistened.
"Sure, thin, if he do be hidin' here, it's mesilf as 'ud know it," she said after a short interval; "but yez can foind 'um, if yez loike; yez can foind 'um."
Whereupon she turned and hobbled off, leaving the intruders to their own resources.
They found themselves in a narrow hallway. On the right was a rickety staircase leading to business offices in the upper part of the building; on the left, a door opening into the office of the Manhattan Chemical Company, and at the end of the hall another door, marked,
PRIVATE OFFICENO ADMITTANCE.
One of the detectives tried this door and found it locked. Whereupon he placed his shoulder to it and prepared to force it in.
"Wait a minute," said Sturgis; "let me see if I cannot open it."
The detective stepped aside with a quizzical expression upon his face.
"I guess you will find it pretty solid for your weight," said he.
The reporter took from his pocket a piece of bent wire, and, with a few dexterous turns of the wrist, he shot the bolt of the lock.
"You would make an expert cracksman," said the detective. "I didn't know you possessed that accomplishment in addition to all your other ones."
The four men entered the private office. The room was quite dark, the shutters being closed and the blinds drawn. As their eyes became accustomed to the obscurity they were able to distinguish the outlines of a desk, a table, and a few chairs.
Sturgis went at once to a door in the corner. With the aid of his skeleton key he had soon thrown this open. After peering for an instant into the darkness, he took from his pocket a candle, which he lighted. Then, beckoning to his companions, he started cautiously to descend. The other men followed him and soon found themselves in the cellar, which they proceeded to search.
On the street side there was a recess extending for a few feet under the area in front of the house. The opening above was covered by an iron grating, over which was a wooden cover securely fastened on the inside by a chain and padlock. A number of carboys were carefully piled along the east wall to within a few feet from the rear of the building. Here, in the northeast corner, rose narrow shelving, on which were arranged a collection of bottles containing a varied assortment of chemicals.
The detectives searched the cellar.
"Our man is not here, at any rate," said the leader, when at last he had returned to the foot of the stairs; "perhaps he'll try to give us the slip by way of the roof. Come along, Jim; let's go upstairs now. Hello! what are you doing there, Mr. Sturgis? Think you'll find him in one of those bottles?"
The reporter appeared to be closely inspecting the chemicals on the narrow shelves.
"Who knows?" he replied coolly, continuing his examination.
The detective bit his lip and looked the unpleasant things he thought it best not to say.
"Well, Jim and I will take a look upstairs while you are busy here."
And the two men went up the dark stairway, Sprague remaining behind with the reporter.
"None so blind as those that won't see," said the latter, sententiously.
At the same time he placed his hand upon one of the shelves and gave it a lateral push. It responded slightly, and the entire shelving, with the door which it concealed, opened outward.
"I thought so," continued the reporter; "this looks as if it might lead somewhere. Will you come, Sprague?"
"How did you find the combination so quickly?" asked the artist, preparing to follow his friend.
"It is not a combination—only a concealed bolt. Our friends of the detective force might have discovered it themselves if they had taken the trouble. The first thing I noticed was that a truck had recently been wheeled through the cellar in the direction of this door, from under the grating on the street side. And this truck was not here; neither was a large case which we know was delivered here to-day. The trail extended clear up to the wall below the shelving; and yet no truck, even unloaded, could pass below that lowest shelf. The conclusion was evident. I sounded the back of the shelving and found that it covered an opening of some kind. After that, all that remained was to notice that one of the shelves was slightly soiled in just one spot, as though by the repeated contact of a hand. From this, I argued that the bolt must be attached to this board. And it was. That is all."
As he spoke, the reporter entered a dark and narrow passage.
"Don't shut the door," said he to his companion, who followed him.
At that moment, however, the artist stumbled: and, instinctively holding out his hands to save himself from falling, he released his hold of the door, which closed with a slam.
"That is unfortunate," said Sturgis; "we may have to lose some time in learning how to work the bolt from this side. Hold on; it will be prudent to keep open a line of retreat, in case of unforeseen emergencies. Hello! we are in luck. Nothing concealed on this side; the bolt in plain sight; works easily. All's well. Then let us go on; unless I am greatly mistaken, we shall find another exit on the other side."
After following the underground passage for some distance, the men climbed some steps and reached a square chamber, on one side of which rose a stairway leading to a door above. The room was surmounted by a skylight, which was wide open, admitting a draught of cold air from the outside.
Sturgis set down his lighted candle and proceeded to examine his surroundings. In the middle of the room stood a truck, upon which lay a long pine box. A table and a chair constituted the only furniture of the place. At one side, there was a long, low, lead-lined tank, filled to the depth of about two feet with a dark viscous liquid. Near it lay a few empty carboys. In the floor there was what seemed to be a hot-air register, of large size and of peculiar construction. The walls were bare, unbroken, save by the projection of the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube, and by a set of shelves filled with flasks, crucibles, alembics and the other paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory.
After the reporter had finished reconnoitering, he sat down upon the long box in deep thought. Sprague observed him with silent curiosity for a while; and then, with growing impatience,
"I say, old man," he ventured at last to ask, "did you bring me here, armed to the teeth, to see you go off into a trance?"
Sturgis started like a man suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.
"Eh? What?—Oh, yes—those confidences. Well, you start in with yours. I am trying to find the dénouement of my story. I feel that it is just within my grasp; and yet I cannot seem to see it yet. But I can listen to you while I am thinking. Go on."
"I have not any story to tell," said Sprague, somewhat offended at his friend's apparent indifference to what he had to say.
"Oh, yes, you have," retorted Sturgis, with a conciliatory smile; "you said you had news to tell me. Well, tell away. I am listening most respectfully in spite of my apparent absorption."
"What a strange fellow you are, Sturgis," laughed Sprague good naturedly. "All I wanted to tell you—and you are the first to hear of it,—is the, to me, rather important fact that I am engaged to be married."
"You are?" exclaimed Sturgis with genuine pleasure. "I congratulate you, old fellow, from the bottom of my heart."
He seized the artist's hand and shook it in his hearty grasp.
"To the original of the picture you wanted to show me yesterday?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then she was not betrothed to the other fellow, after all?"
"No; that seems to have been a mistake."
"I am glad of that, very glad," said the reporter. "By the way, you have not yet told me the young lady's name."
"I thought I had mentioned it yesterday morning. Didn't I? No? My fiancée is Miss Murdock."
At the sound of this name Sturgis started visibly, and a shadow crossed his features.
"Miss Murdock?" he echoed.
"Yes," said Sprague. "What is it? You do not seem pleased."
Then, as a sudden thought struck him:
"I hope I am not treading on your toes, old fellow," he said, putting his hand gently upon his friend's shoulder, and trying to read his thought in his clear gray eyes. "But how absurd! Of course you cannot be a rival for Miss Murdock's affections, since you do not even know her——"
"No," laughed Sturgis, regaining his composure, "I am not your rival. As to the other point, while I can hardly claim an acquaintance with the young lady, I think I saw her not more than a couple of hours ago."
"A couple of hours ago!" exclaimed Sprague; "why, I was with her myself then."
"I know that now, although I was not aware of it at the time."
"What, were you at the Murdocks' at the same time as I was?" asked Sprague, surprised.
"I had just come from there when I met you. I was in Murdock's study while you were—er—busy in the parlor."
"In Murdock's study? How long were you there?"
"About half an hour, I should judge," replied Sturgis, "and perhaps fifteen minutes more in the hall, while Murdock was engaged."
"I suppose Chatham was still with him," mused Sprague.
Sturgis started at the name.
"Chatham!" he ejaculated; "what do you know about Chatham?"
"What, are you interested in Chatham?" asked the artist, curiously. "I know very little about him, only that he is one of my disappointed rivals."
And he thereupon related to the reporter what he knew of Chatham's suit.
Sturgis listened with deep attention to his friend's narrative, and ruminated in silence long after the artist had ceased speaking.
At last he started up with a sudden exclamation, and walking over to the side of the tank, he looked into the depths of its oily contents, as if fascinated by some horrible thing he saw there.
Sprague came and stood beside him and gazed curiously into the viscous liquid. There was nothing there that he could see.
"What is it?" he asked.
Without replying, Sturgis took from his pocket a bone-handled knife and carefully dipped one end of the handle into the fluid in the leaden tank. At once the liquid began to seethe and boil, giving out dark pungent fumes.
"I thought so," muttered the reporter, under his breath; "that man is truly a genius—the genius of evil."
"Who?" asked Sprague.
Sturgis made no reply. His eyes were wandering about the room, as if in search of something.
"Hand me a couple of those long glass tubes from that shelf yonder," he said, earnestly.
The artist complied with the request. Dipping these tubes into the oily liquid, Sturgis, after considerable difficulty, managed to seize with them a small dark object which lay at the bottom of the tank. With infinite precaution, he brought it to the surface. It had the appearance of a flattened leaden bullet.
"What is it?" inquired Sprague.
"Sit down," answered Sturgis, in a low, tense voice. "I have just found the last link which completes my chain of evidence; I am now prepared to tell you such a story as you will scarcely credit, even with the absolute proofs before your eyes."
THE LEAD-LINED VAT.
Sprague seated himself upon the long pine box; and Sturgis, dropping into the only chair, began his narrative. As he talked, he carelessly whittled the cover of the wooden box with the knife which he still held in his hand. He began with an account of his investigation at the Knickerbocker bank, and explained the result of his observations and inferences down to the time of his visit to Murdock's house, omitting, however, to mention any of the names of the actors in the reconstructed drama.
"So you see," he concluded, "we have established the identity of the body in the cab, and of the young man who disappeared after the cab was upset. But one of the most salient features of the case, from the start, was the fact that neither of these two men had derived much, if any, pecuniary profit from his crime. The bookkeeper, as we have seen, was a mere catspaw in the control of the accountant, and his posthumous confession has given us the explanation of the power exerted over him by his accomplice. It was not so easy to establish the motive which controlled the actions of the accountant, who was himself only a tool in the hands of a higher intelligence. Thedeus ex machinâof this crime is a man of genius who has hardly appeared upon the scene at all, but whose traces I have found at every turn. He was the brains of the whole scheme; the other men in his hands were mere puppets. Through the accountant, this master spirit managed the bookkeeper; and the accountant himself was controlled by him more directly, but no less surely. If he held the former through his fear of exposure and consequent ruin, he influenced the latter through even more potent motives. He is the father of a beautiful girl, whom he did not scruple to use as a decoy. The price agreed upon for the accountant's assistance was the hand of this daughter, for whom the young man had doubtless conceived a passionate love. Whether or not the leader would have had the power to carry out his part of the contract matters little; for it is highly probable that he never had the slightest intention of so doing. He evidently realized very early in the game that the bookkeeper could not long escape the clutches of the law. But as he had taken every precaution to prevent him from knowing anything of his very existence, the fate of the unfortunate bookkeeper would have mattered little to this heartless villain, had not the probability remained that, when brought to bay, the bookkeeper would denounce the accountant's connection with the crime. This would have been extremely awkward, since the accountant was very likely in possession of some dangerous secrets. The safest way out of the difficulty was to quietly suppress the now useless bookkeeper. This plan was decided upon, and would doubtless have been carried into execution, had not fate otherwise decreed. After the bookkeeper's death, under the circumstances which I have related, it became quite probable that the accountant's connection with the case would be discovered; for luck had been against him from the start, and he became more and more entangled in the chain of circumstantial evidence of whose existence his leader was soon fully aware. In the first place, the accountant was wounded; and thus not only partially disabled, but also,—what is far worse,—conspicuously marked. A man who carries his arm in a sling can hardly fail to attract attention, especially when this distinguishing mark is accompanied by another equally glaring one in the form of a head of brilliant red hair——"
"Hold on, Sturgis!" interrupted Sprague, who had been listening with growing interest; "don't you know the accountant's name?"
"Yes," replied the reporter; "his name is Thomas Chatham."
"Thomas Chatham!" exclaimed Sprague, as the image of the miserable young man came to his mind.
"Yes," replied Sturgis, answering his thought, "the man you met only a few hours ago."
There was a brief silence, broken at last by Sprague, who asked:
"Has he escaped?"
Sturgis hesitated.
"That depends upon how we look at it," he said gravely at length; "he has paid the penalty of his crimes."
"What do you mean?"
"He is dead," answered the reporter.
"Dead? But I tell you I saw him——"
"I know; but he has died since."
"Suicide?"
"No;" the reporter's voice sank to a whisper; "murder!"
"Murder?" repeated the artist, startled. "But how do you know that?"
"This lump of lead tells the story," said Sturgis, holding up the shapeless piece of metal which he had taken out of the vat.
"What is it? A bullet?"
"Yes; the bullet which Chatham carried in his arm from the time that he was wounded by Arbogast, the bullet which has enabled me to trace him step by step, from his flight from the overturned cab, to Doctor Thurston's, and finally to his death in this very room; the bullet whose peculiar shape is recorded in this shadow picture taken by Thurston by means of the Roentgen rays."
So saying, he handed Sprague the photograph. But the artist had ceased to listen.
"In this very room?" he mused aloud, looking about him with awe.
"Yes. The story is simple enough. The man whose instrument Chatham was, is not one who would care to be lumbered up with tools, which become positively dangerous as soon as they cease to be useful. This man, totally unhampered by pity, gratitude or fear, determined to destroy the accountant, whose discovery might have imperilled his own welfare. What mattered a human life or two, when weighed against the possible loss of his own life or liberty, or of his high social standing and his enormous wealth; for this man is both renowned and rich, and he appears to have brought wholesale murder to a science."
"Do you mean to say that wholesale murder can be indulged in with impunity in a city like New York, at the end of the nineteenth century?" asked Sprague aghast.
"Yes; when it is done in the systematic and scientific manner that has been employed here. For this murderer is the most remarkable criminal of modern times. He has not been satisfied with killing his victims; he has succeeded in completely wiping them out of existence. Criminals have often attempted to destroy the bodies of their victims, but they have never before succeeded as this man has. He is a chemist of remarkable talent, and he has discovered a compound in which bone as well as human tissue is rapidly and totally dissolved. There it is in yonder tank. See how completely the liquid has destroyed the bone handle of this knife."
Sturgis, after showing the damaged knife to his companion, resumed his whittling upon the cover of the box on which the artist was seated.
"Chatham's body has been dissolved in that tank within a very short time. It has entirely disappeared; this flattened bullet alone is left, lead being one of the few substances which are not soluble in the contents of that tank. Fortunately he overlooked that fact. Genius has its lapses."
Presently Sprague ventured to say:
"If numerous crimes have been committed here, as you intimate, I do not understand how it is that suspicion has never rested on this house before."
"The author of these crimes has taken every precaution to render the chance of discovery quite remote. His dwelling-house on one street, and the bogus Chemical Company on the other, are in communication through this underground passage, while apparently having no connection with each other. Moreover, he is too shrewd to make frequent use of this death chamber. That does well enough as a last resort, when he is obliged to commit the murders with his own hands; but I suspect that this man has other agents like Chatham, who do the dirty work for him and then quietly ship the bodies here for annihilation, as it was intended should be done with Arbogast's. Ah! yes; I thought so. You are sitting upon one of these bodies now."
Sprague started to his feet; and, following the direction in which Sturgis was pointing with his open knife, he vaguely discerned, through the opening which the reporter had whittled, a small surface of what had once been the features of a human being.
After gazing for some minutes in horror-stricken silence at the distorted face, the artist asked in a low voice:
"How did Chatham meet his death?"
"I don't know yet," answered Sturgis gravely; "this man is no ordinary criminal. His work is clean and leaves no blood-stains and no disorder to tell of its accomplishment. He takes life with his own hands only when he is forced to do so; but, when he does, his method is masterly. It was easier to make away with Chatham than to pay him the price agreed upon for his complicity in the Knickerbocker bank embezzlement; and so his life was taken. I hope to discover how before I leave here."
Sprague started as the reporter ceased speaking.
"The price of his complicity?" he exclaimed, laying his hand upon Sturgis's arm, and looking earnestly into his eyes.
"Yes," replied the reporter, steadily meeting his friend's gaze, "his daughter's hand."
Sprague looked away from the honest eyes of the reporter, as if he dreaded to read in them the answer to his next question.
"Who is this fiend incarnate, who is willing to traffic in his own flesh and blood, and with whom murder is a science?"
"The man who is capable of these crimes, and of any others which might serve to remove an obstacle from his way, is——"
The reporter did not finish his sentence. He suddenly grasped his companion by the arm and stood transfixed, his eyes dilated, his neck craned in a listening attitude, every muscle tense like those of a wild animal in ambush, about to spring upon its approaching prey.
Presently a click was heard as though a bolt had been shot from its socket.
"Draw your revolver!" Sturgis whispered hoarsely to his companion. "Quick!——Look there!"
At the same time he drew his own weapon and pointed in the direction of the door at the head of the stairs. The door opened, and a man entered, quietly smoking a cigar.
"Doctor Murdock!" exclaimed Sprague with horror.
Murdock, still holding the door ajar, eyed the two men for an instant, his impassive face betraying not the slightest sign of emotion; Then, taking his cigar from his lips:
"Ah, gentlemen," he drawled in his ironical way, "I am delighted to see you. I trust you will make yourselves perfectly at home for a few minutes. I shall return directly. You can continue to work out your little problem in the meantime, Mr. Sturgis."
With these words he calmly turned to leave the room.
"Stop!" shouted Sturgis, levelling his revolver at Murdock's head; "stand where you are or I fire!"
The reporter's shot rang out almost before he had finished his sentence; but Murdock, unscathed, passed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Sprague, dazed by the rapidity with which this scene had been acted, stood rooted to the spot, without having made any attempt to use the revolver which he had drawn at Sturgis's bidding.
The reporter sprang up the stairs and threw his weight against the door. But it was doubtless intended to withstand great shocks, for it remained unshaken.
"Check!" came the sound of a mocking voice from the other side of the door.
Then, rushing down the stairs again, Sturgis shouted to his companion:
"Come quick! We must get out of here!"
And he led the way through the subterranean passage toward the cellar of the Manhattan Chemical Company.
THE DEATH CHAMBER.
Before the men had gone many steps a grating sound reached their ears from the direction of the skylight. They looked up and saw sliding steel shutters slowly and ponderously close, like grim jaws; and suddenly they felt themselves cut off from the outside world.
Sturgis, taking up his lighted candle, made his way to the door of the subterranean passage and tried in vain to open it; the heavy iron bolt remained immovable in its socket. Inch by inch he scrutinized the door with growing anxiety. At last he abandoned the search, and returned in the direction of the square chamber.
"That explains why he wanted to shut me in here when I was in his office," he muttered under his breath.
"What is the matter?" asked Sprague.
"We are caught like rats in a trap," replied Sturgis. Then with feeling he added: "I do not know how this will end, old man. I have bungled and I fear the game is lost. If our lives are the forfeit, you will owe your death to my stupidity."
Sprague looked at his friend, as if surprised to hear him apparently abandon the fight.
"Don't worry about me," he said kindly; "I came here of my own free will. But," he added, as a vision of Agnes Murdock flashed upon his mind, "I have no intention to die just yet, if I can help it. Are we not both able-bodied men and armed? What can one man do against two?"
"It is not an open fight," said Sturgis, "but I am glad to see your spirit. I do not give up; but I want you to realize that we are in a critical situation, with the odds enormously against us."
"Why, what can Murdock do?"
"Perhaps what he did to Chatham. It will probably not be long before we discover what that was."
"But there must be some way of opening that door from the inside," said Sprague.
"There evidently is none," replied Sturgis; "he probably controls these doors from the outside by electrical connection."
The men were back in the square chamber. Sturgis's eyes were roving restlessly over the walls, ceiling and floor in search of a loophole of escape.
"There is no chance to reach the skylight without a ladder; and even if we could reach it, we should be no further advanced, as it would be impossible to make any impression on the steel shutters. That leaves the register and the speaking-tube. While I examine the register, suppose you try the tube. If it connects with the Manhattan Chemical Company's office, there is a bare chance that we may attract the attention of the detectives whom we left there."
"As we were saying, Mr. Sturgis——"
The words came in Murdock's mocking tones.
Sturgis quickly held the lighted candle above his head and peered in the direction whence came the sound. A panel of the door at the head of the stairs had been pushed up, revealing a small opening covered by a strong and closely woven wire netting.
"As we were saying, 'murder will out!' Nevertheless, it is sometimes easier to weld a chain, even of circumstantial evidence, than it is to predict who will be bound in it."
Sturgis and Sprague stood in the glimmering light of the candle, silently watching the glowing eyes behind the screen.
"Mr. Sturgis, you are a clever man," continued Murdock, "an uncommonly clever man. I frankly admit that I had underrated your ability. But then we are all fallible, after all. I made my share of blunders, as you seem to have discovered; but you will doubtless now concede that your own course has not been entirely free from errors. And now that we have reached the conclusion of this interesting game, I have the honor to announce, 'mate in one move!' Perhaps you are surprised that I should take the trouble to explain the situation to you so clearly. I do so in recognition of your superior intelligence. I see in you a peer. If matters could have been so arranged, I should have been proud to work in harmony with such a man as you; and indeed, when, a short time ago, I invited you to my laboratory, it was my intention to offer you a compromise which I hoped I might be able to persuade you to accept. I felt that you would prove an ally who could be trusted. But, alas, that is impossible now, on account of your friend's presence. With all due respect to Mr. Sprague, as an amiable man of the world and a prince of good fellows, it may be said that he is not one of us. Much to my sorrow, therefore, I am left no alternative to the course I am about to adopt. The fault, if anybody's, is your own, after all, Mr. Sprague. There is a homely but expressive adage concerning the danger of 'monkeying' with a buzz saw. Why, my dear friend, did you 'monkey' with Mr. Sturgis's buzz saw, instead of sticking to your palette and maulstick.
"But I fear I am growing garrulous, gentlemen. If I had time, I should like to explain to Mr. Sturgis the details of some of the more important, and, in my humble opinion, more brilliant schemes of which I have been the——ah——the promoter; for I dislike to be judged by the bungling operations which have so nearly caused me to lose this latest little game. But this cannot be. I shall have to continue to confide to the pages of my journal, as I have done for years, the interesting events of, if I may say so, a somewhat remarkable career, which I hope will some day, after my death, find their way in print to public favor. My dream has always been that some such man as Mr. Sturgis might ultimately edit these memoirs; but, alas, the fondest of human dreams are seldom destined to be realized.
"Now then, gentlemen, before finally parting with you, I wish to honorably carry out the terms of my wager with Mr. Sturgis. I concede the fact that, to all intents and purposes, he has won the bet, and I authorize you, Mr. Sprague, as stakeholder, to pay him the amount I deposited with you. As I have already suggested, he has made some perhaps excusable mistakes; but then, as he himself stated the other night, 'a detective has a lifetime in which to correct a blunder.' A lifetime! It is not in accordance with Mr. Sturgis's usual practice to use so vague a term. A lifetime is not necessarily a very long time, Mr. Sturgis."
During this tirade Sturgis and Sprague had remained standing with their eyes fixed upon the gleaming carbuncles which peered at them from behind the grated peephole at the top of the stairs. The artist seemed to realize that the fight was lost. His attitude was that of a brave man accepting, with calm despair, an unpleasant but inevitable doom. The reporter had drawn his revolver at the first sound of Murdock's voice, but had immediately returned it to his pocket upon realizing that the chemist was protected by a bullet-proof grating. Now, pale and collected, he remained inscrutable. It was impossible, even for the sharp eyes of Murdock, to determine whether he was at last resigned to his fate, or whether his active mind was still on the alert for a loophole of escape.
The bit of candle which he held in his hand had burned so low that at last he was unable to hold it without risk of burning his fingers. Whereupon he coolly set it down upon the stone floor, where presently the wick fell over into a pool of molten paraffine, and the flame spluttered noisily, sending fitful gleams through the darkness.
"Well," continued Murdock's voice, "it is at any rate a great satisfaction to play a game with an adversary worthy of one's steel. You have played well, Mr. Sturgis. I think you would have won modestly; and you are losing as I would myself have lost, had our positions been reversed. Good-bye."
The gleaming eyes disappeared from the grating, and the sliding panel closed with a metallic click.
"Now then," said Sturgis to his companion, "the last chance lies in the speaking-tube. But first help me move this box."
"What do you want to do with the box?" asked Sprague, who, however, did as he was bid.
"It may help us to gain a little time. Put it down here."
Sturgis struck a match and pointed out the spot.
"On the hot-air register?"
"On what looks like a hot-air register. Did you ever see a hot-air register with no apparent means of shutting off the heat?"
Sprague, who stood almost over the register, suddenly threw back his head and gasped for breath.
"You have discovered the secret of this death trap," said Sturgis, observing him.
"Gas!" spluttered the artist.
"Yes, he is going to asphyxiate us. Now, quick, to the speaking-tube! The box will somewhat retard the rush of gas; but, at the best, it is only a question of minutes before the air becomes so charged as to render respiration impossible."
Sprague rushed to the speaking-tube and whistled long and loud, after which he placed his ear to the mouthpiece.
"I hear some one walking," he suddenly exclaimed.
The two men listened in breathless silence for an answering call.
"Well, gentlemen; what can I do for you?"
The words came in Murdock's voice.
Sprague's eyes met those of the reporter and saw that the last faint glimmer of hope was gone. In that swift and silent interchange of thought there was resignation to the inevitable doom and the final farewell of two brave hearts.
The spluttering candle gave its last flicker and went out, leaving the prisoners in utter darkness.
The room was rapidly filling with gas, and they were beginning to feel its effects.
"We can at least complete our task before we die," said Sturgis with grim determination.
"Our task!"
"Yes, and insure Murdock's conviction for our murder."
"What chance is there that any one will ever discover our bodies, since they are destined for Murdock's oblivion tank?"
"Give me your hand," Sturgis replied; "there is a box of matches. I place it here, between us, within easy reach. I want to write a few words to the superintendent of police to explain matters. By that time there will be enough gas in the room to produce a terrific explosion, when we strike a match. We can thus succeed in wrecking this place and calling attention to it. If I should succumb before you do, do not fail to light the match."
While he was speaking, the reporter had taken from his pocket a pad and a pencil, and had begun to write as rapidly as he could in the darkness.
Sprague's head was beginning to swim and his ears were ringing, but the thought of Agnes Murdock was uppermost in his mind.
"An explosion!" he exclaimed; "no, no; that must not be. What of Agnes? She may be hurt?"
Sturgis continued writing.
"It is the only chance there is of bringing Murdock to justice," he said, firmly.
"But Agnes is innocent of his crimes," urged the artist, in a thick voice. His tongue clove to his palate; he felt his consciousness ebbing. "Why should she suffer? I am going, old man——I cannot hold out any longer——Promise me that you——that you will not——strike——the match——"