Some days after the recovery of the houseboat, Average Jones sat atbreakfast, according to his custom, in the cafe of the HotelPalatia. Several matters were troubling his normally serene mind.First of these was the loss of the trail which should have led toHarvey Craig. Second, as a minor issue, the Oriental papers foundin the deserted Bellair Street apartment had been proved, bytranslation, to consist mainly of revolutionary sound and fury,signifying, to the person most concerned, nothing. As for the issueof the Washington daily, culled from the houseboat, there was,amidst the usual melange of social, diplomatic, political and citynews, no marked passage to show any reason for its having been inthe possession of "Smith." Average Jones had studied and restudiedthe columns, both reading matter and advertising, until he knew themalmost by heart. During the period of waiting for his order to bebrought he was brooding over the problem, when he felt ahand-pressure on his shoulder and turned to confront Mr. ThomasColvin McIntyre, solemn of countenance and groomed with a supernalmodesty of elegance, as befitted a rising young diplomat, alreadyFifth Assistant Secretary of State of the United States of America.
"Hello, Tommy," said the breakfaster. "What'll you have to drink?An entente cordialer?"
"Don't joke," said the other. "I'm in a pale pink funk. I'm afraidto look into the morning papers."
"Hello! What have you been up to that's scandalous?"
"It isn't me," replied the diplomat ungrammatically. "It's TelfikBey."
"Telfik Bey? Wait a minute. Let me think." The name had struck aresponse from some thought wire within Average Jones' perturbedbrain. Presently it came to him as visualized print in smallhead-lines, reproduced to the mind's eye from the Washingtonnewspaper which he had so exhaustively studied.
THIS TURK A QUICK JUMPER Telfik Bey, Guest of Turkish Embassy, Barely Escapes a Speeding Motor-Car
No arrest, it appeared, had been made. The "story," indeed, wasbrief, and of no intrinsic importance other than as a social note.But to Average Jones it began to glow luminously.
"Who is Telfik Bey?" he inquired.
"He isn't. Up to yesterday he was a guest of this hotel."
"Indeed! Skipped without paying his bill?"
"Yes--ah. Skipped--that is, left suddenly without paying his bill,if you choose to put it that way."
The tone was significant. Average Jones' good natured face becamegrave.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Tommy. Was he a friend of yours?"
"No. He was, in a sense, a ward of the Department, over here oninvitation. This is what has almost driven me crazy."
Fumbling nervously in the pocket of his creaseless white waistcoathe brought forth a death notice.
"From the Dial," he said, handing it to Average Jones.
The clipping looked conventional enough.
DIED--July 21, suddenly at the Hotel Palatia: Telfik Bey of Stamboul, Turkey. Funeral services from the Turkish Embassy, Washington, on Tues. Ana Alhari.
"If the newspapers ever discover--" The young diplomat stoppedshort before the enormity of the hypothesis.
"It looks straight enough to me as a death notice, except for thetail. What does 'Ana Alhari' mean? Sort of a requiescat?"
"Yes; like a mice!" said young Mr. McIntyre bitterly. "It means'Hurrah!' That's the sort of requiescat it is!"
"Ah! Then they got him the second time."
"What do you mean by 'second time?"'
"The Washington incident, of course, was the first; the attemptedmurder--that is, the narrow escape of Telfik Bey."
Young Mr. McIntyre looked baffled. "I'm blessed if I know whatyou're up to, Jones," he said. "But if you do know anything of thiscase I need your help. In Washington, where they failed, we fooledthe newspapers. Here, where they've succeeded--"'
"Who are 'they?'" interrupted Jones.
"That's what I'm here to get at. The murderers of Telfik Bey, ofcourse. My instructions are to find out secretly, if at all. Forif it does get into the newspapers there'll be the very deuce topay. It isn't desirable that even Telfik Bey's presence here shouldhave been known for reasons which--ah--(here Average Jones remarkedthe resumption of his friend's official bearing)--which, not beingfor the public, I need not detail to you."
"You need not, in point of fact, tell me anything about it at all,"observed Average Jones equably.
Pomposity fell away from Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, leaving himpalpably shivering.
"But I need your help. Need it very much. You know something abouthandling the newspapers, don't you?"
"I know how to get things in; not how to keep them out."
The other groaned. "It may already be too late. What newspapershave you there?"
"All of 'em. Want me to look?"
Mr. McIntyre braced himself.
"Turk dies at Palatia," read Average Jones. "Mm--heart disease . . .wealthy Stamboul merchant . . . studying American methods . . .Turkish minister notified."
"Is that all?"
"Practically."
"And the other reports?"
Average Jones ran them swiftly over. "About the same. Hold on!Here's a little something extra in the Universal."
"'Found on the floor . . . bell-boy who discovered the tragedycollapses . . . condition serious . . . Supposedly shock--"
"What's that?" interrupted young Mr. McIntyre, half rising. "Shot?"
"You're nervous, Tommy. I didn't say 'shot.' Said 'shock."'
"Oh, of course. Shock--the bell-boy, it means."
"See here; first thing you know you'll be getting me interested.Hadn't you better open up or shut up?"
Mr. McIntyre took a long breath and a resolution simultaneously.
"At any rate I can trust you," he said. "Telfik Bey is not amerchant. He is a secret, confidential agent of the Turkishgovernment. He came over to New York from Washington in spite ofwarnings that he would be killed."
"You're certain he was killed?"
"I only wish I could believe anything else."
"Shot?"
"The coroner and a physician whom I sent can find no trace of awound."
"What do they say?"
"Apoplexy."
"The refuge of the mystified medico. It doesn't satisfy you?"
"It won't satisfy the State Department."
"And possibly not the newspapers, eventually."'
"Come up with me and look the place over, Average. Let me send forthe manager."
That functionary came, a vision of perturbation in a pale-gray coat.Upon assurance that Average Jones was "safe" he led the way to therooms so hastily vacated by the spirit of the Turkish guest.
"We've succeeded in keeping two recent suicides and a blackmailscheme in this hotel out of the newspapers," observed the managermorosely. "But this would be the worst of all. If I could haveknown, when the Turkish Embassy reserved the apartment--"
"The Turkish Embassy never reserved any apartment for Telfik Bey,"put in the Fifth Assistant Secretary of State.
"Surely you are mistaken, sir," replied the hotel man. "I saw theiremissary myself. He specified for rooms on the south side, eitherthe third or fourth floor. Wouldn't have anything else."
"You gave him a definite reservation?" asked Jones.
"Yes; 335 and 336."
"Has the man been here since?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"A Turk, you think?"
"I suppose so. Foreign, anyway."
"Anything about him strike you particularly?"
"Well, he was tall and thin and looked sickly. He talked very soft,too, like a sick man."
The characterization of the Pearlington station agent recurred tothe interrogator's mind. "Had he--er--white hair?" he half yawned.
"'No," replied the manager, and, in the same breath, the buddingdiplomat demanded:
"What are you up to, Average? Why should he?"
Average Jones turned to him. "To what other hotels would theTurkish Embassy be likely to send its men?"
"Sometimes their charge d'affaires goes to the Nederstrom."
"Go up there and find out whether a room has been reserved forTelfik Bey, and if so--"
"They wouldn't reserve at two hotels, would they?"
"By whom," concluded Average Jones, shaking his head at theinterruption. "Find out who occupied or reserved the apartments oneither side."
Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre lifted a wrinkling eyebrow. "Really,Jones," he observed, "you seem to be employing me rather in thecapacity of a messenger boy."
"If you think a messenger boy could do it as well, ring for one,"drawled Average Jones, in his mildest voice. "Meantime, I'll be inthe Turk's room here."
Numbers 335 and 336, which the manager opened, after the prompt ifsomewhat sulky departure of Mr. McIntyre, proved to consist of asmall sitting room, a bedroom and a bath, each with a large windowgiving on the cross-street, well back from Fifth Avenue.
"Here's where he was found." The manager indicated a spot near thewall of the sitting-room and opposite the window. "He had justpushed the button when he fell."
"How do you know that?"
"Bronson, the bell-boy on that call, answered. He knocked severaltimes and got no answer. Then he opened the door and saw Mr. Telfikdown, all in a heap."
"Where is Bronson?"
"At the hospital, unconscious."
"What from?"
"Shock, the doctors say."
"What--er--about the--er--shot?"
The manager looked startled. "Well, Bronson says that just as heopened the door he saw a bullet cross the room and strike the wallabove the body."
"You can't see a bullet in flight."
"He saw this one," insisted the manager. "As soon as it struck itexploded. Three other people heard it."
"What did Bronson do?"
"Lost his head and ran out. He hadn't got halfway to the elevatorwhen he fell, in a sort of fainting fit. He came to long enough totell his story. Then he got terribly nauseated and went off again."
"He's sure the man had fallen before the explosion?"
"Absolutely."
"And he got no answer to his knocking?"
"No. That's why he went in. He thought something might be wrong."
"Had anybody else been in the room or past it within a few minutes?"
"Absolutely no one. The floor girl's desk is just outside. Shemust have seen anyone going in."
"Has she anything to add?"
"She heard the shot. And a minute or two before, she had heard andfelt a jar from the room."
"Corroborative of the man having fallen before the shot," commentedJones.
"When I got here, five minutes later, he was quite dead," continuedthe manager.
Evidence of the explosion was slight to the investigating eye ofAverage Jones. The wall showed an abrasion, but, as theinvestigator expected, no bullet hole. Against the leg of a desk hefound a small metal shell, which he laid on the table.
"There's your bullet," he observed with a smile.
"It's a cartridge, anyway," cried the hotel man. "He must have beenshot, after all."
"From inside the room? Hardly! And certainly not with that. It'sa very small fulminate of mercury shell, and never held lead. No.The man was down, if not dead, before that went off."
Average Jones was now at the window. Taking a piece of paper fromhis pocket he brushed the contents of the window-sill upon it. Adozen dead flies rolled upon the paper. He examined themthoughtfully, cast them aside and turned back to the manager.
"Who occupy the adjoining rooms?"
"Two maiden ladies did, on the east. They've left," said themanager bitterly. "Been coming here for ten years, and now they'vequit. If the facts ever get in the newspapers--"
"What's on the west, adjoining?"
"Nothing. The corridor runs down there."
"Then it isn't probable that any one got into the room from eitherside."
"Impossible," said the manager.
Here Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre arrived with a flushed face.
"You are right, Average," he said. "The same man had reserved roomsat the Nederstrom for Telfik Bey."
"What's the location?"
"Tenth floor; north side. He had insisted on both details. Nos.1015, 1017."
"What neighbors?"
"Bond salesman on one side, Reverend and Mrs. Salisbury, ofWilmington, on the other."
"Um-m-m. What across the street?"
"How should I know? You didn't tell me to ask."
"It's the Glenargan office building, just opened, Mr. Jones,"volunteered the manager.
Average Jones turned again to the window, closed it and fastened hishandkerchief in the catch. "Leave that there," he directed themanager. "Don't let any one into this room. I'm off."
Stopping to telephone, Average Jones ascertained that there were novacant offices on the tenth floor, south side of the Glenarganapartment building, facing the Nederstrom Hotel. The last one hadbeen let two weeks before to--this he ascertained by judiciousquestioning--a dark, foreign gentleman who was an expert on rugs.Well satisfied, the investigator crossed over to the skyscraperacross from the Palatia. There he demanded of the superintendent asingle office on the third floor, facing north. He was taken to aclean and vacant room. One glance out of the window showed him hishandkerchief, not opposite, but well to the west.
"Too near Fifth Avenue," he said. "I don't like the roar of thetraffic."
"There's one other room on this floor, farther along," said thesuperintendent, "but it isn't in order. Mr. Perkins' time isn't uptill day after tomorrow, and his things are there yet. He told thejanitor, though, that he was leaving town and wouldn't bother totake away the things. They aren't worth much. Here's the place."
They entered the, office. In it were only a desk, two chairs and ascrap basket. The basket was crammed with newspapers. One of themwas the Hotel Register. Average Jones found Telfik Bey's name, ashe had expected, in its roster.
"I'll give fifty dollars for the furniture as it stands."
"Glad to get it," was the prompt response. "Will you want anythingelse, now?"
"Yes. Send the janitor here."
That worthy, upon receipt of a considerable benefaction, expressedhimself ready to serve the new tenant to the best of his ability.
"Do you know when Mr. Perkins left the building?"
"Yes, sir. This morning, early."
"This morning! Sure it wasn't yesterday?"
"Am I sure? Didn't I help him to the street-car and hand him hislittle package? That sick he was he couldn't hardly walk alone."
Average Jones pondered a moment. "Do you think he could have passedthe night here?"
"I know he did," was the prompt response. "The scrubwoman heard himwhen she came this morning."
"Heard him?"
"Yes' sir. Sobbing, like."
The nerves of Average Jones gave a sharp "kickback," like amis-cranked motor-car. His trend of thought had suddenly beenreversed. The devious and scientific slayer of Telfik Bey in tears?It seemed completely out of the picture.
"You may go," said he, and seating himself at the desk, proceeded toan examination of his newly acquired property. The newspapers inthe scrap basket, mainly copies of the Evening Register, seemed tocontain, upon cursory examination, nothing germane to the issue.But, scattered among them, the searcher found a number of fibrouschips. They were short and thick; such chips as might be made bycutting a bamboo pole into cross lengths, convenient for carrying.
"The 'spirit-wand,"' observed Average Jones with gusto. "That wasthe 'little package,' of course."
Next, he turned his attention to the desk. It was bare, except fora few scraps of paper and some writing implements. But in a crevicethere shone a glimmer of glass. With a careful finger-nail AverageJones pushed out a small phial. It had evidently been sealed withlead. Nothing was in it.
Its discoverer leaned back and contemplated it with stiffenedeyelids. For, upon its tiny, improvised label was scrawled the"Mercy sign;" mysterious before, now all but incredible.
For silent minutes Average Jones sat bemused. Then, turning in amessenger call, he drew to him a sheet of paper upon which he slowlyand consideringly wrote a few words.
"You get a dollar extra if this reaches the advertising desk of theRegister office within half an hour," he advised the uniformedurchin who answered the call. The modern mercury seized the paperand fled forthwith.
Punctuality was a virtue which Average Jones had cultivated to thepoint of a fad. Hence it was with some discountenance that hisclerk was obliged to apologize for his lateness, first, at 4 P. M.Of July 23, to a very dapper and spruce young gentleman in palemauve spats, who wouldn't give his name; then at 4:05 P. m. of thesame day to Professor Gehren, of the Metropolitan University; andfinally at 4:30 P. m. to Mr. Robert Bertram. When, only a momentbefore five, the Ad-Visor entered, the manner of his apology wasmore absent than fervent.
Bertram held out a newspaper to him.
"Cast your eye on that," said he. "The Register fairly reeks withfreaks lately."
Average Jones read aloud.
SMITH-PERKINS, formerly 74 Bellair-Send map present location H. C. Turkish Triumph about smoked out. MERCY--Box 34, Office.
"Oh, I don't know about its being so freakish," said Average Jones.
"Nonsense! Look at it! Turkish Triumph--that's a cigarette, isn'tit? H. C.--what's that? And signed Mercy. Why, it's the work of alunatic!"
"It's my work," observed Average Jones blandly.
The three visitors stared a him in silence.
"Rather a forlorn hope, but sometimes a bluff will go," hecontinued.
"If H. C. indicates Harvey Craig, as I infer," said Professor Gehrenimpatiently, "are you so infantile as to suppose that his murdererwill give information about him?"
Average Jones smiled, drew a letter from his pocket, glanced at itand called for a number in Hackensack.
"Take the 'phone, Professor Gehren," he said, when the reply came."It's the Cairnside Hospital. Ask for information about HarveyCraig."
With absorbed intentness the other three listened to the one-sidedconversation.
"Hello! . . . May I speak to Mr. Harvey Craig's doctor? . . . Thisis Professor Gehren of the Metropolitan University . . . Thank you,Doctor. How is he? . . . Very grave? . . . Ah, has been very grave. . . . Wholly out of danger? . . . What was the nature of hisillness?
"When may I see him? . . . Very well. I will visit the hospitalto-morrow morning. Thank you. . . . I should have expected that youwould notify me of his, presence." intervened, then "Good-by."
"It is most inexplicable," declared Professor Gehren, turning to theothers. "The doctor states that Harvey was brought there at night,by a foreigner who left a large sum of money to pay for his care,and certain suggestions for his treatment. One detail, carefullyset down in writing, was that if reddish or purple dots appearedunder Harvey's nails, he was to be told that Mr. Smith released himand advised his sending for his friends at once."
"Reddish or purple dots, eh?" repeated Average Jones. "I shouldlike--er--to have talked with--er--that doctor before you cut off."
"And I, sir," said the professor, with the grim repression of thethinker stirred to wrath, "should like to interview this stranger."
"Perfectly feasible, I think," returned Average Jones.
A long silence.
"You don't mean that you've located him already!" cried young Mr.McIntyre.
"He was so obliging as to save me the trouble."
Average Jones held up the letter from which he had taken theCairnside Hospital's telephone number. "The advertisement worked toa charm. Mr. Smith gives his address in this, and intimates that Imay call upon him."
Young Mr. McIntyre rose.
"You're going to see him, then?"
"At once."
"Did I understand you to imply that I am at liberty to accompanyyou?" inquired Professor Gehren.
"If you care to take the risk."
"Think there'll be excitement?" asked Bertram languidly. "I'd liketo go along."
Average Jones nodded. "One or a dozen; I fancy it will be all thesame to Smith."
"You think we'll find him dead." Young Mr. McIntyre leaped to thisconclusion. "Count me in on it."
"N-no; not dead."
"Perhaps his friend 'Mercy' has gone back on him, then," suggestedMr. McIntyre, unabashed.
"Yes; I rather think that's it," said Average Jones, in a curiousaccent. "'Mercy' has gone back on him, I believe, though I can'tquite accurately place her as yet. Here's the taxi," he broke off."All aboard that's going aboard. But it's likely to be dangerous."
Across town and far up the East Side whizzed the car, over thebridge that leads away from Manhattan Island to the north, andthrough quiet streets as little known to the average New Yorker asare Hong Kong and Caracas. In front of a frame house it stopped.On a side porch, over which bright roses swarmed like childrenclambering into a hospitable lap, sat a man with a gray face. Hewas tall and slender, and his hair, a dingy black, was alreadyshowing worn streaks where the color had faded. At Average Jones hegazed with unconcealed surprise.
"Ah; it is you!" he exclaimed. "You," he smiled, "are the 'Mercy'of the advertisement?"
"Yes."
"And these gentlemen?"
"Are my friends."
"You will come in?"
Average Jones examined a nodding rose with an indulgent, almost apaternal, expression.
"If you--er--think it--er--safe," he murmured.
"Assuredly."
As if exacting a pledge the young man held out his hand. The olderone unhesitatingly grasped it. Average Jones turned the longfingers, which enclosed his, back upward, and glanced at them.
"Ah," he said, and nodded soberly, "so, it is that."
"Yes; it is that," assented the other. "I perceive that you havecommunicated with Mr. Craig. How is he?"
"Out of danger."
"That is well. A fine and manly youth. I should have sorelyregretted it if--"
Professor Gehren broke in upon him. "For the peril in which youhave involved him, sir, you have to answer to me, his guardian."
The foreigner raised a hand. "He was without family or ties. Itold him the danger. He accepted it. Once he was careless--and oneis not careless twice in that work. But he was fortunate, too. I,also, was fortunate in that the task was then so far advanced that Icould complete it alone. I got him to the hospital at night; nomatter how. For his danger and illness I have indemnified him inthe sum of ten thousand dollars. Is it enough?"
Professor Gehren bowed.
"And you, Mr. Jones; are you a detective?"
"No; merely a follower of strange trails--by taste."
"Ah. You have set yourself to a dark one. You wish to know howTelfik Bey"--his eyes narrowed and glinted--"came to his reward.Will you enter, gentlemen?"
"I know this much," replied Average Jones as, followed by hisfriends, he passed through the door which their host held open."With young Craig as an assistant, you prepared, in the loneliestpart of the Hackensack Meadows, some kind of poison which, Ibelieve, can be made with safety only in the open air."
The foreigner smiled and shook his head.
"Not with safety, even then," he said. "But go on."
"You found that your man was coming to New York. Knowing that hewould probably put up at the Palatia or the Nederstrom, you reservedrooms for him at both, and took an office across from each. As itwas hot weather, you calculated upon his windows being open. Youwatched for him. When he came you struck him down in his own roomwith the poison."
"But how?" It was the diplomat who interrupted.
"I think with a long blow-gun."
"By George!" said Bertram softly. "So the spirit-wand of bamboo wasa blow-gun! What led you to that, Average?"
"The spirit rappings, which the talky woman in the Bellair Streetapartment used to hear. That and the remnants of putty I found nearthe window. You see the doors opening through the whole length ofthe apartment gave a long range, where Mr.--er--Smith couldpractice. He had a sort of target on the window, and every time heblew a putty ball Mrs. Doubletongue heard the spirit. Am I right,sir?"
The host bowed.
"The fumes, whatever they were, killed swiftly?"
"They did. Instantly; mercifully. Too mercifully."
"How could you know it was fumes?" demanded Mr. Thomas ColvinMcIntyre.
"By the dead flies, the effect upon the bell-boy, and the fact thatno wound was found on the body. Then, too, there was the fulminateof mercury shell."
"Of what possible use was that?" asked Professor Gehren.
"A question that I've asked myself, sir, a great many times over inthe last twenty-four hours. Perhaps Mr. Smith could answer thatbest. Though--er--I think the shell was blown through the blowpipeto clear the deadly fumes from the room by its explosion, before anyone else should suffer. Smith is, at least, not a wantonslaughterer."
"You are right, sir, and I thank you," said the foreigner. He drewhimself up weakly but with pride. "Gentlemen, I am not a murderer.I am an avenger. It would have gone hard with my conscience had anyinnocent person met death through me. As for that Turkish dog, youshall judge for yourself whether he did not die too easily."
From among the papers in a tiroir against the wall he took a Frenchjournal, and read, translating fluently. The article was a baldaccount of the torture, outrage and massacre of Armenian women andgirls, at Adana, by the Turks. The most hideous portion of it wasbriefly descriptive of the atrocities perpetrated by order of a highTurkish official upon a mother and two young daughters. "AnArmenian prisoner, being dragged by in chains, went mad at thesight," the correspondent stated.
"I was that prisoner," said the reader. "The official was TelfikBey. I saw my naked daughter break from the soldiers and run tohim, pleading for pity, as he sat his horse; and I saw him strikehis spur into her bare breast. My wife, the mother of my children--"
"Don't!" The protest came from the Fifth Assistant Secretary ofState.
He had risen. His smooth-skinned face was contracted, and the sweatstood beaded on his forehead. "I--I can't stand it. I've got myduty to do. This man has made a confession."
"Your pardon," said the foreigner. "I have lived and fed on andslept with that memory, ever since. On my release I left mycountry. The enterprise of which I had been the head, dye-stuffmanufacturing, had interested me in chemistry. I went to England tostudy further. Thence I came to America to wait."
"You have heard his confession, all of you," said young Mr.McIntyre, rising. "I shall have him put under arrest pending advicefrom Washington."
"You, may save yourself the trouble, I think, Tommy," drawledAverage Jones. "Mr. Smith will never be called to account in thisworld for the murder--execution of Telfik Bey."
"You saw the marks on my finger-nails," said the foreigner. "Thatis the sure sign. I may live twenty-four hours; I may live twice orthree times that period. The poison does its work, once it getsinto the blood, and there is no help. It matters nothing. Myambition is satisfied."
"And it is because of this that you let us find you?" asked Bertram.
"I had a curiosity to know who had so strangely traced my actions."
"But what was the poison?" asked Professor Gehren.
"I think Mr. Jones has more than a suspicion," replied the doomedman, with a smile. "You will find useful references on yondershelf, Mr. Jones."
Moving across to the shelf, Average Jones took down a heavy volumeand ran quickly over the leaves.
"Ah!" he said presently, and not noticing, in his absorption, thatthe host had crossed again to the tiroir and was quietly searchingin a compartment, he read aloud:
"Little is known of cyanide of cacodyl, in its action the swiftestand most deadly of existing poisons. In the '40's, Bunsen, theGerman chemist, combined oxide of cacodyl with cyanogen, a radicalof prussic acid, producing cyanide of cacodyl, or diniethyl arsinecyanide. As both of its components are of the, deadliestdescription, it is extremely dangerous to make. It can be made onlyin the open air, and not without the most extreme precaution knownto science. Mr. Lacelles Scott, of England, nearly lost his lifeexperimenting with it in 1904. A small fraction of a grain givesoff vapor sufficient to kill a human being instantly."
"Had you known about this stuff, Average?" asked Bertram.
"No, I'd never beard of it. But from its action and from thelettered cabinet, I judged that--"
"This is all very well," broke in Mr. Assistant Secretary ThomasColvin McIntyre, "but I want this man arrested. How can we knowthat he isn't shamming and may not escape us, after all?"
"By this," retorted their host. He held aloft a small glass vial,lead-seated, and staggered weakly to the door.
"Stop him!" said Average Jones sharply.
The door closed on the words. There was a heavy fall without,followed by the light tinkle of glass.
Average Jones, who had half crossed the room in a leap, turned tohis friends, warning them back.
"Too late. We can't go out yet. Wait for the fumes to dissipate."
They stood, the four men, rigid. Presently Average Jones, opening arear window, leaped to the ground, followed by the others, and camearound the corner of the porch. The dead man lay with peacefulface. Professor Gehren uncovered.
"God forgive him," he said. "Who shall say that he was not right?"
"Not I," said the young assistant secretary in awed tones. "I'mglad he escaped. But what am I to do? Here we are with a dead bodyon our hands, and a state secret to be kept from the prying police."
Average Jones stood thinking for a moment, then he entered the roomand called up the coroner's office on the telephone.
"Listen, you men," he said to his companions. Then, to the officialwho answered: "There's a suicide at 428 Oliver Avenue, the Bronx.Four of us witnessed it. We had come to keep an appointment withthe man in connection with a discovery he claimed in metallurgy, andfound him dying. Yes; we will wait here. Good-by."
Returning to the porch again, he cleared away the fragments ofglass, aided by Bertram. To one of these clung a shred of paper.For all his languid self-control the club dilettante shivered alittle as he thrust at it with a stick.
"Look, Average, it's the 'Mercy' sign again. What a hideoustravesty!"
Average Jones shook his bead.
"It isn't 'Mercy,' Bert. It's the label that he attached, forprecaution, to everything that had to do with his deadly stuff. Theformula for cyanide of cacodyl is 'Me-2CY.' It was the scrawlyhandwriting that misled; that's all."
"So I was right when I suggested that his 'Mercy' had gone back onhim," said Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, with a semi-hystericalgiggle.
Average Jones looked from the peaceful face of the dead to thelabel, fluttering in the light breeze.
"No," he said gravely. "You were wrong. It was his friend to thelast."