He staggered and fell against the reporter, who caught him in his arms. His own senses were reeling.
"Promise——" pleaded the half-unconscious man.
"I promise," answered Sturgis, after an instant's hesitation.
It struck a chill to his heart to see his friend dying in the prime of youth, strength and happiness.
Suddenly a thought flashed upon him.
"Brace up, old fellow. All is not yet over. The speaking-tube leads to fresh air. Here, put your lips to it, and breathe through your mouth."
The artist heard the words and made an effort to obey these directions. With Sturgis's assistance he managed to place his lips to the mouthpiece of the speaking-tube. A few whiffs of comparatively fresh air sent the sluggish blood coursing through his veins, and gave him a new hold on life. With renewed vigor came the animal instinct to fight to the last for existence.
As the shadows of death which had been closing in upon him receded, he became conscious of Sturgis's voice beating upon his ears in broken and scarcely audible tones.
"It is——the last chance——Stick——to the tube——When he comes——surprise him——your revolver——shoot——before——"
The reporter was clinging unsteadily to his friend's shoulder. Sprague suddenly realized that Sturgis in his turn was succumbing to the effects of the gas. He sprang back in time to catch the staggering man in his arms.
"Selfish brute that I am!" he exclaimed. "Here; it is your turn to breathe!" And he pushed the reporter toward the tube.
"No, no," said Sturgis, struggling faintly; "it cannot be both——and you——have——everything——to live for."
But the artist was now the stronger, and he succeeded in forcing his friend to inhale enough fresh air to restore his departing consciousness.
At length Sturgis, with returning strength, was about to renew the generous struggle with Sprague, when suddenly the place was ablaze with the glare of an electric light.
"He wants to see if his work is done," whispered Sturgis to his companion.
Then, observing that Sprague was again on the verge of asphyxiation, he continued hurriedly:
"Fill your lungs with air, quick!——quick, I tell you. Now drop and feign death. Do as I do."
Suiting the action to the word, Sturgis threw himself upon the stone floor, face downward, and lay motionless, his right hand grasping a revolver concealed beneath his body. Sprague, after a short breathing spell at the tube, followed his companion's example.
After a short interval there came a metallic click, which Sturgis recognized as the sound made by the opening of the slide in the panel of the door at the head of the stairs.
A moment—which seemed an eternity of suspense—followed, during which the prisoners felt, without being able to see, the cold gleam of the steely eyes of Murdock at the grating.
Would he enter? Would he suspect the ruse? Would the two men retain their grasp of consciousness and their strength long enough to make a last fight for life?
These thoughts crowded upon the reporter's brain as he lay simulating death and making a desperate effort to control his reeling senses.
If Murdock were coming he would have to shut off the gas and to ventilate the room. What was he waiting for?
"Come in!"
The words were Murdock's as he turned away from the grating and closed the sliding panel.
"An interruption which probably means death to us," whispered Sturgis to his companion; "take another breath of fresh air, old fellow; we must hold out a little longer."
Sprague, however, lay motionless and unresponsive. The reporter shook him violently and turned him over upon his back. The artist's body was limp and inert; his eyes half closed; his face livid.
The reporter himself felt sick and faint. But, with a mighty effort, he succeeded in raising his friend in his arms, and dragging him toward the speaking-tube. There, of a sudden, his strength failed him. His head swam; his muscles relaxed; he felt Sprague's limp form slip from his grasp, tottered, reeled, threw his arms wildly about him for support, and fell, as the last elusive ray of consciousness was slipping away from him.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
After Sprague had left her, Agnes, shaken by the conflicting emotions of the day, had gone to her room to rest and to prepare for the interview which she meant to have with her father on the subject of her lover and of Chatham.
Having received word that Murdock would remain in his study during the rest of the afternoon, she had taken time to reflect upon what she meant to say, and how she meant to say it. Her visit was not prompted by the desire of a daughter to confide the great happiness of her life to the loving sympathy of an affectionate parent; but Agnes was punctilious in the performance of what she considered to be her duties, great and small, and she counted it among those duties to obtain, or at any rate to seek, the paternal sanction of her choice of a husband.
Her knock at the door of Murdock's study was answered in the chemist's quiet voice:
"Come in."
As she opened the door, Murdock advanced to meet her. He seemed to come from the direction of the extension.
Miss Murdock sniffed the air.
"Isn't there a leak of gas?" she inquired.
"Yes," replied Murdock; "I have just stopped a leak in the laboratory. Won't you take a chair, Agnes?"
She felt his calm searching glance upon her; and, in spite of her preparation, she grew embarrassed, as was her wont, in her father's presence.
"Did Mr. Chatham wait to see you this afternoon?" she asked, after a momentary silence.
Murdock observed her narrowly.
"Yes; Chatham has been here to-day. I did not know that you had seen him."
"I could not help seeing him; for he forced his way into the parlor, in spite of all the servants could do to prevent him."
An almost imperceptible furrow appeared between the chemist's eyes.
"Has he been annoying you with his attentions?"
The words were spoken in Murdock's usual tones; but Agnes saw something in her father's eyes and in the firm lines of his mouth which sent a cold shiver down her spine, and caused her pity to go out to the unfortunate young man who had offended her.
"Perhaps he is more to be pitied than blamed," she suggested gently. "My interview with him was certainly not pleasant; but I bear him no malice."
"Tell me about it," said Murdock slowly.
Agnes gave her version of the visit, in which, instinctively, she softened, as much as possible, the passion and brutality displayed by the accountant.
Murdock listened in silence until she had quite finished. Then Agnes noticed that his right hand was clenched upon the arm of his chair with a force which caused the muscles to stand out in hard knots. She looked up into his face in sudden surprise.
His features gave no indication of what his feelings might be; and his voice, as usual, was steady and deliberate.
"I am sorry all this should have happened, Agnes. As I told you yesterday, I hoped to save you from this man's importunities. It cannot be helped now. But I think I made it clear to the gentleman that his attentions are as distasteful to me as they are to you. As he seems to have told you, he has been obliged to leave the country—I understand that he has done something or other which makes it safer for him to undertake a long journey. At any rate, we are well rid of him for some time to come, and I think you need have no fear of further molestation."
"What did he mean by saying that he had had encouragement from you?" asked the young girl.
"I am sure I do not know. That was of course a lie out of whole cloth. He came to me with letters of recommendation from good friends of mine, and I therefore occasionally invited him to the house; but that is all the encouragement he ever got from me. We live in the United States and at the close of the nineteenth century. The selection of a husband is no longer performed by a stern parent, but is left entirely to the young girl herself. That is certainly my way of looking at the matter. When you find the man of your choice, my only function will be to give my advice, if you seek it, and my best assistance in any event."
The turn of the conversation thus suddenly brought to the surface the topic which occupied the young girl's mind, to the exclusion of all others; and which, for that very reason, had been kept severely in the background up to that point.
"That reminds me," said Agnes consciously, as a charming flush suffused her beautiful face, "that I have not yet broached the principal object of this interview——"
Murdock observed her closely and waited for her to proceed. But Agnes was once more laboring under a strange embarrassment and could not find words in which to frame the confidence she was so reluctant to offer.
Perhaps the chemist divined something of the nature of what she was struggling to find expression for. At any rate, he noticed her embarrassment and endeavored to come to her assistance with a few encouraging words, spoken with unusual gentleness. Agnes, engrossed with her own thoughts, did not notice it; but there was in his manner as near an approach to tender wistfulness as his nature was capable of.
At last the young girl seemed to gather courage, and she was about to speak, when there was a knock upon the door.
"Plaze, sur; there do be two gintlemin in the hall."
"Who are they, Mary?"
"Shure, thin, sir, I dunno, barrin' wan uv 'em do be a polacemun."
"Did they ask to see me?"
"They did not, sur; shure they asked if Mr. Chapman was in."
"Mr. Chatham?"
"Yis, sur. And I told 'em he wuz here this afthernoon, and I wud see wuz he here now, fur I aint seen him go yit."
"Well, Mary, you see he has gone, since he is no longer here," said Murdock quietly. "Take the gentlemen into the parlor, and tell them I shall be with them in a minute."
"All right, sur."
After the maid had left the room, the chemist rose from his chair and walked toward the door leading to the library.
"If you will excuse me for a few minutes, Agnes, I shall see what these men want. Wait for me here, if you will. I shall be back directly."
So saying, he noiselessly opened the folding-doors and passed into the library, closing the doors carefully behind him.
Freed from the presence of her father, Agnes almost instantly regained her composure. She had not, however, had much time to collect her thoughts, when she was suddenly startled by a loud shrill whistle, which brought her to her feet in alarm.
It is a well-known fact that there is, in the ring of a door bell, a complex range of expression, which differentiates to an observant ear the characteristics of the ringer. No one is likely to mistake the postman's ring for that of the beggar; and no young girl is liable to confound her father's ring with that of her lover; but, to a careful observer, the gradations of quality, of intensity, of duration, in a ringing door bell, are almost as great as in the voices of the ringers themselves. Perhaps the range of expression in the whistle of a speaking-tube is less extended; but in the whistle which reached Agnes Murdock's ears there was something that struck a chill of terror to her heart, like a wild despairing cry of anguish, and which caused her to spring without hesitation to the tube, the mouthpiece of which protruded from the wall of Murdock's study.
"Well?"
She asked the question in anxious tones, as if realizing that life and death were in the balance. Then she placed her ear to the mouthpiece.
At first, she could not make out the words spoken by her invisible interlocutor. Then, gradually, they fell upon her ear with terrible distinctness; and she stood spellbound, as in a horrible nightmare, with sudden terror in her staring eyes, and with the fearful sense of impotence in her trembling limbs.
THE SPEAKING-TUBE.
Nature has implanted in every one of its living creatures, from the top to the bottom of the scale, the strongest of all instincts—that of self-preservation. As Sturgis fell forward and clutched wildly at the air, his hands struck the stone wall of the square chamber. No conscious impression was made upon his brain by the contact; but, automatically, his fingers tightened as they slipped over the smooth surface. His right hand struck an obstacle and closed upon it, in the convulsive grip of a dying man. Then a sudden gleam of consciousness swept across his sluggish brain.
It was the speaking-tube!
He clung to it with the remnant of his strength and eagerly placed his lips to the mouthpiece. For a few minutes he drank in with avidity the revivifying draughts of air which gradually brought him back from the brink of death.
With returning consciousness, the thought of his dying friend recurred to him in all its vividness. He tried to go to his assistance; but he was sick and faint, and his limbs were powerless to respond to his will. Then, at last, he was seized with utter despair and gave up the struggle.
He had sunk dejectedly upon the chair when a faint and indistinct murmur, as of distant voices, beat upon his ears, whose natural acuity seemed extraordinarily increased by the long nervous tension under which he had been. The ruling passion is strong in death; without knowing just why he did so, Sturgis found himself again at the speaking-tube, endeavoring to hear the conversation, the sound of which evidently came from Murdock's office.
He could barely distinguish a word here and there; but he recognized the timbre of one of the voices. It was the chemist's, and his interlocutor was a woman—perhaps his daughter. If only he could reach Agnes Murdock with some word or signal.
In suspense, he held his ear to the mouthpiece, occasionally taking a breath of fresh air to renew his strength.
Should he take the chances and shout in the hope of catching the young girl's attention? If he whistled, Murdock would answer himself, and the last chance would be lost. But would she hear a shout? And, if she did, would not her father prevent her from rendering any assistance? Yet what other chance was there? Poor Sprague was dying; perhaps already dead. There was no time to lose.
He stood for a while irresolute, and had just made up his mind to risk all on a bold move, when suddenly Murdock's voice became more distinct, as if he were passing near the mouthpiece of the speaking-tube at the other end.
"I shall be back directly."
He was going, then. Agnes, if it were she, would remain alone for at least an instant; and in that instant lay possible salvation.
The reporter strained every nerve to catch some other word. None came. But presently he heard a door close. Murdock had left the room. Now or never was the chance to act. With all his might he blew repeatedly into the tube.
"Well?"
The question came in the sweet tones of a woman's voice.
"Mr. Sprague is in great danger. You alone can save his life, if you do at once as I say. Go to the door of the extension; press upward on the lower hinge; then turn the knob! Quick, before your father returns!"
Sturgis evoked the image of Murdock performing these operations before opening the door of the extension; and, with retrospective intuition, divined their purpose.
There was no answer. Sturgis waited for none. In a bound he was at his friend's side and was struggling to drag him toward the foot of the stairs. As he reached this point, the door opened and revealed Agnes Murdock, pale and frightened, on the landing at the top.
The first rush of gas caused her to start back; but in another instant she had caught sight of her lover's inanimate form and had rushed to his assistance.
Slowly and laboriously Sturgis and his fair assistant dragged the unconscious man up the stairs. With every step the task became more difficult, as the effect of the gas told upon the strength of the toilers. It began to look as if it would be impossible to reach the top.
Suddenly a shadow fell across the threshold of the open door. Sturgis looked up in quick apprehension.
It was Murdock.
He stood critically observing the scene, with all outward appearance of calmness.
Agnes had not seen him. She was making desperate efforts to raise Sprague's limp form; but felt herself succumbing to the effects of the gas.
"My darling! my poor darling!" she exclaimed, and suddenly she staggered and lurched forward.
Sturgis made an instinctive effort to support her; but before he could reach her Murdock was at her side and had her in his arms. He bore her gently up the stairs and into his study. Then, for an instant, he seemed to hesitate. The reporter expected to see him close the door. Instinctively his hand reached back to his hip pocket for his revolver. But, in another moment, Murdock had returned to where he stood.
"Come!" he said.
At the same time he lifted the artist in his arms and carried him up the stairs. Sturgis followed unsteadily and reached the study, only to fall exhausted into a chair.
Having deposited his burden upon the floor, Murdock closed the door of the death chamber; turned a valve which was near his desk; opened the windows wide, and revolved a crank which projected from the wall near the door of the extension.
"He is shutting off the gas and opening the steel shutters of the skylight," thought Sturgis.
Then the chemist produced a flask and poured out a small quantity of brandy, which he forced his daughter to swallow.
As soon as she was sufficiently revived, she rushed to the side of her lover, whose head she gently raised to her lap. Murdock's eyes were fastened upon her. She met his calm questioning gaze.
"Yes, I love him," she said simply.
Then this strange man, without another word, gently pushed his daughter to one side, and, throwing off his coat, stooped over the prostrate form of the man whose life he had tried to take, and industriously worked over him, in an attempt to restore the failing respiration.
Slowly and steadily he worked for what seemed an eternity to the anxious girl. At length he rose, calm and collected as usual, and drew on his coat again.
"He is out of danger now," he said; "you can do the rest yourself."
And he handed his daughter the brandy flask.
A faint tinge of color had returned to the artist's face; his breast heaved gently in an irregular respiration.
Sturgis, still unable to stir from the chair in which he had fallen, was vaguely conscious of Murdock's movements. He saw the chemist open the safe which stood near his table and take from it numerous bundles of bank-notes, which he carefully packed into a valise; he saw him take from the same safe a few richly bound note-books, which he proceeded to do up in a neat bundle, securely tied and sealed.
This done, the chemist put on his hat and coat, and was preparing to pass out into the hallway, when a knock sounded upon the door.
Murdock opened slightly—enough to show himself, without revealing the presence of the other occupants of the room.
It was one of the housemaids.
"Plaze, sur," said the girl, in a frightened voice, "the polacemun says he can't wait no longer; he must see yer right away."
"Are they in the parlor?"
"Only the polacemun, sur; the other man said he would wait outside."
Murdock took a minute for reflection.
"Wait in the hall until I call you," he said, at last. "If the policeman becomes impatient, tell him I shall not be long; that I am engaged on most important business."
No sooner had the girl gone than Murdock, seizing the valise and the package, opened the door of the extension. His eyes rested for a while upon his daughter, who, still absorbed in the tender care of her inanimate lover, was oblivious of all else. There was in them an unusual expression,—almost a tender light; but the impassive face was otherwise emotionless.
The chemist seemed to hesitate for a brief instant whether to speak; then, passing out into the extension, he softly closed the door behind him.
Sturgis alone, weak and powerless, had seen him go.
CHECKMATE!
The two detectives, after leaving Sprague and Sturgis in the cellar of the Manhattan Chemical Company, proceeded to search the premises from basement to roof. Then, somewhat discomfited, they returned to the cellar, and were surprised to find that the reporter and his friend had disappeared.
After questioning the man whom they had left on watch on the outside, and ascertaining that neither Sprague nor Sturgis had yet left the house, the detectives called loudly to the missing men, and receiving no reply, at last became alarmed, and sent word of the mysterious disappearance to headquarters. The chiefs answer came at once:
"Remain on watch where you are. We shall investigate from the other side."
One of the detectives thereupon went up to the roof of the building, whence he could keep watch upon the back yards, while his companion remained in the front hall.
They had been waiting thus for some time, when the latter thought he heard footsteps in the direction of the private office. He was on the alert in an instant.
The door was cautiously opened and a man stepped out into the hallway. He carried a valise and a package. He blinked like a man coming suddenly from the darkness into the daylight.
"Who are you?" asked the detective brusquely.
The man looked in the direction of the voice; and, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, returned the detective's surprised stare with a calm and searching look.
"Checkmate!" he murmured quietly to himself at last.
Then, without seeming haste, he passed back into the private office, before the astonished detective could make any attempt to stop him.
Recovering himself quickly, the detective followed the sounds of the retreating footsteps to the cellar stairs. Then, fearful of an ambush, he fired his revolver as a signal to his companion on the roof; and, after striking a match, he cautiously descended, reaching the cellar just in time to see Murdock disappear into the underground passage.
He rushed to the spot; and, unable to find the door, he pounded with all his might upon the shelves, causing the bottles to dance and rattle.
"Come, now," he shouted, "the game's up! You may as well be reasonable. You can't possibly escape, for you're surrounded."
No answer came from within.
The man tried his powerful strength upon the door without any perceptible effect.
When the second detective arrived upon the scene, he found the first one removing the bottles from the shelves by the light of a match held in his left hand.
"Get a light and an axe, Jim. There's a secret door here which we'll have to break in; I can't find any way of opening it."
A few minutes later, the detectives, after dealing upon the shelves some telling blows with an axe, again called upon Murdock to surrender.
Receiving no answer to their summons, the men stood irresolute for a few seconds. Then, with grim determination, they attacked the door; raining the blows upon it fast and furiously, and filling the air with a shower of splinters.
At length a final stroke sent the weakened hinges from their fastenings, and the men rushed through the underground passage into the murderer's laboratory.
A hasty, startled glance told them that Murdock was not there.
They started for the stairs and were met by a policeman who was just entering from Murdock's office.
"Have you got him?" asked the detectives in chorus.
"No," replied the policeman surprised; "Mr. Sturgis says he went down here about twenty minutes ago."
"We chased him in from the other end not ten minutes ago."
The policeman hurried down the stairs.
Murdock's valise and package stood conspicuous upon the long pine box. But of Murdock there was no sign.
"Gone!" exclaimed one of the detectives deeply mortified at the thought that his quarry had slipped through his fingers. "Gone! How? Where? He cannot have escaped. He cannot——What is it, Mr. Sturgis?"
He had suddenly caught sight of the reporter, half way up the stairs.
Weak and ill, Sturgis, with blanched face, clung unsteadily, with one hand, to the railing; while, with the other, he pointed toward the lead-lined vat, whose dark viscous contents were bubbling like boiling oil.
A pungent vapor rose in dense clouds from the surface of the liquid. Through it the fascinated gaze of the horrified men vaguely discerned a nameless thing, tossed in weird and grotesque contortions in a seething vortex.
Murdock had escaped the justice of men.
THE MURDER SYNDICATE.
"See here, Sturgis; this won't do. I forbade you to do a stroke of work to-day, or even to leave your bed; and here you are scribbling away just as though nothing had happened. I tell you when a man has had the narrow squeak you have, there has been a tremendous strain upon his heart, and it is positively dangerous——"
"Don't scold, old man; I have never in my life been better than I feel to-day. And besides, this work could not be postponed——"
"Oh, pshaw! That is what nine out of every ten patients say to their physician. They are modestly convinced that the world must needs come to a standstill if they cannot accomplish their tiny mite of work. What do you suppose the world would have done had you and Sprague remained in Murdock's death chamber yesterday? I'll tell you. TheTempestwould have printed two eulogistic obituary notices; and then the world would have hobbled on, just as though the greatest detective of the age and the modern Raphael had not been snuffed out of existence."
Doctor Thurston, who had assumed his frown of professional severity, proceeded to feel the reporter's pulse.
"Well, you are in luck; better than you deserve. Almost any other man would have been laid up for a week by the experience you have been through. And here you have the face to recover without the assistance of the medical profession, and in spite of your insolent disregard of my express orders to leave work alone for the present. Now, there is Sprague——"
"Ah, what of Sprague?" asked the reporter, anxiously.
"Sprague has had a close call. But he is safe now. If tender and intelligent nursing count for anything, he will probably be up in a day or two."
"Miss Murdock?——"
"Yes. She has a professional nurse to help her; but she has insisted on taking charge of the case herself. And an excellent nurse she is, too, and a charming girl into the bargain,—and what is more, a noble woman."
"Does she know of her father's death?"
"I broke the news to her as gently as possible. She took it much more calmly than I supposed she would. There evidently was but little sympathy between her and her father."
"On her side, at any rate."
"Yes. Her first act on learning of her father's crimes was to send for a lawyer. She refuses to touch a cent of his money, and has instructed her attorney to make such restitutions as may be possible and to turn over the rest to charitable institutions. This leaves her almost penniless; for the property she held in her own right from her mother's estate amounts to very little. Fortunately, Sprague is rich enough for both. What are you doing there, if I may ask?"
Doctor Thurston pointed to a bundle which lay upon the table.
"That is Murdock's autobiography—a legacy to me. The package was found near his valise in the death chamber. He had addressed it to me at the last minute."
"Did it help you in your account of the Knickerbocker bank case for theTempest?"
"A little; but naturally, Murdock's account of that crime was not complete. The entire journal, however, is of absorbing interest. It is a pity that it cannot be published."
"Why cannot it be published?"
"It would be dangerous to the welfare of society. Murdock was an extraordinary genius in his line; there is marvelous originality and ingenuity in his work. His crimes, numbered by the hundred, were all of capital importance in their results; all deep-laid and skilfully executed. It is hardly likely that such another consummate artist in crime will exist once a century. To publish the details of his schemes would be to put a formidable weapon in the hands of the vulgar herd of ordinary criminals, who lack the imagination of this brilliant villain.
"I tell you, Thurston," continued Sturgis, with what seemed very like enthusiastic conviction, "this man was the originator of almost every unsolved mystery which has nonplussed the police during the last fifteen years. He had his agents in every important center throughout the country; agents working under potent incentives, and yet working in the dark, for few of them have ever known who held the mysterious power which directed their every move. Murder has been done wholesale: and so quietly and mysteriously has the work been accomplished, that, in all but this last case, the detectives have found no clue whatever which might lead to an explanation of the sudden and unaccountable disappearance of wealthy men, whose bodies, shipped to the Manhattan Chemical Company by Murdock's agents, were quietly and systematically made away with in the chemist's laboratory."
"He was the fiend incarnate!" exclaimed the physician.
"Well," said Sturgis, after a moment of thoughtful silence, "at any rate, he was not wantonly cruel. He was heartless; he was pitiless; but his cruelty was always a means to an end, however selfish and illegitimate that end might be. His cruelty is that, in a measure, of every human being destroying life that he may live and trampling upon his fellow men that he may be comfortable. Between Murdock and the rest of us there was a difference of degree, certainly, but was there a difference of kind?"
"There is one thing which I cannot yet understand," said Thurston, "and that is, why Murdock should have pushed his audacity to the point of defying you to ferret out the mystery of this crime, when he might perhaps have avoided all risk of detection by holding his tongue."
"No man is perfect," answered Sturgis, sententiously, "not even an accomplished villain like Murdock, fortunately for the rest of mankind. Every human being has his weak points. Murdock had two:—his vanity and his love for his daughter. They were the only traits which connected him with the human family. To them he owes his undoing."