That secret has served me well!
'Remember how I used it in Hamburg, when Tolfens, the German scientist, would not reveal his methods of experiment? Tolfens is dead - but his work goes on. It is my work, now. You have done well, Vignetti, to be faithful to me.'
The old man drew himself up proudly. He stared across the room as he mechanically removed his working gloves. He gave the gloves to Vignetti. The Corsican unlocked a drawer in a table and placed the gloves at the front of the drawer.
'Gold!' Partridge pronounced the word in a tone of grandeur. 'Gold! I shall have all of it, Vignetti! All that is in the world, some day. So much that I shall rule! Rule as master!
'Those men who are working for me—those friends of mine in so many lands where I have been. They are gaining wealth. Morales— Gleason—Armagnac— Pallanci—Sukulos'—the old man's lips formed other names—'they are gaining wealth; but I have more. All mine is gold—I want nothing else.
Gold—gold— more gold—I shall have it. Forster wished it, but I shall have it. I have much of it now—
millions!'
A crackling laugh came from the old man's throat. He seemed to be enjoying a long joke. Vignetti stood by, calmly surveying the old man. His expression showed that this eccentric conduct was a regular routine with Lucien Partridge.
'Yes, Vignetti'—the old man's new tone was cunning and calculating— 'wealth is already mine. With wealth I shall have power. Other wealth cannot equal mine. My power shall never fade. Soon I shall be ready to rule the world.
'Still, I must beware. There are men who will try to shatter my power. Out of chaos, I shall rise to my great glory. I must create chaos! Death brings chaos! There are men who rule here in America. Big men of business—big men of politics—big men of power—and I shall meet them.
'As friends we shall meet—they and I. As friends they shall die! Is that not wonderful? It is better than the knife, Vignetti—for the knife is a sign of enmity.
'That is your method of vendetta that you knew in Corsica. My method is infinitely better—the method of Li Tan Chang—the method of friendship! Ha-ha-ha-ha!'
THE cackling laugh echoed through the laboratory. Even stolid Vignetti had imbibed the old man's enthusiasm. His dark face was livid with an insidious pleasure.
'Bankers—millionaires—presidents'—Partridge's tone was contemptuous —'what do I care for them?
They shall die, at my bidding. Any who shall question me shall die!'
In the bright electric illumination of the laboratory, Lucien Partridge's face had gained a fierceness that was unbelievable. But now his frenzy faded. Once again he became the quiet, placid old man that Clifford Forster had found so amiable.
A bell sounded from another room. Lucien Partridge looked at Vignetti. The Corsican nodded. That bell indicated a visitor at the outer gate. The servant hurried from the laboratory, and Lucien Partridge waited by the door until he returned.
'It is Mr. Lawrence Guthrie,' explained Vignetti, in his broken English, a method of speech that he frequently used in his announcements.
'Ah Guthrie!' Partridge's voice indicated pleasure.
With gleaming eyes, the old man walked into the hall. There he spoke to Vignetti in Italian. The Corsican nodded. Partridge pointed to the door and made a motion that indicated that admittance should be granted. Vignetti started for the gate.
A few minutes later, the Corsican ushered Lawrence Guthrie into the laboratory. Lucien Partridge, his lips framed in a pleasant smile, stood waiting to greet his unexpected visitor.
CHAPTER VII. GUTHRIE SPEAKS
THERE was a troubled look in Lawrence Guthrie's eyes as he faced Lucien Partridge. The old man saw that his visitor was worried. He also saw Guthrie turn an anxious glance toward Vignetti, who had entered behind him. Partridge spoke in Italian. The Corsican retired.
Guthrie, his face more cadaverous than ever, became a pathetic object the moment that he stood alone with Partridge. It was obvious that he was under a terrific strain; that he had borne up under a mental ordeal.
Now, with none but the old man to witness his plight, Guthrie collapsed upon a stool that stood beside a workbench. He turned hunted eyes toward Lucien Partridge.
'What is the matter, Guthrie?' questioned Partridge, in a solicitous tone.
'I didn't do it!' exclaimed Guthrie. 'You will believe me, Partridge! I didn't do it.'
His voice choked, and he buried his head upon his outstretched arms. Lucien Partridge stood quietly by; then spoke in an inquiring tone.
'What is it that you did not do?' he questioned.
Guthrie raised his head and stared, unbelieving. He saw Partridge's puzzled expression. For a moment, an elation glimmered on Guthrie's countenance; then it changed to suspicion. Partridge observed the dissimilar emotions. He spoke in a gentle, kindly tone.
'What is the trouble, Guthrie? You seem weighted by worry -'
'Nothing,' protested Guthrie, staring about him with a hunted expression. 'Nothing—that is—if you don't know about it—yet I can't believe that you have not heard -'
'Heard of what?' inquired Partridge.
The mild manner of the old man accomplished more than a sharp questioning might have done. Staring, Guthrie saw only friendliness in the benign countenance of Lucien Partridge. He gripped the old man's arm and spoke in a tense voice.
'You have not heard'—his words were breathless—'you have not heard of Forster—of Forster's death?'
'Forster?' Partridge seemed puzzled. 'You mean that Clifford Forster is dead?'
Guthrie nodded; then lowered his gaze.
'Clifford Forster dead!' declared Partridge, in a stunned tone. 'I cannot believe it!'
'The newspapers were full of it,' said Guthrie suddenly. 'I thought that surely you must have read the reports.'
'I have no time for newspapers,' responded Partridge. 'I live in a world of my own, Guthrie. I have few friends outside. You were one; Forster was another. Now, he is gone. You must feel the loss also, Guthrie.'
'I do!' blurted Guthrie eagerly. 'It is a shock to me, Partridge. That is why—why I am so worried—why I have come to see you— because I thought you might suspect -'
He paused, afraid to continue; but as he saw Partridge still solicitous, Guthrie gave way to a sudden resolve. He arose and stood beside the workbench, facing Partridge while he spoke.
'FORSTER came to New York a few nights ago,' he declared. 'While he was in his home, he was overcome by a paroxysm that resulted in his death. Now the police suspect murder. They are trying to find a man who was in Forster's home when death came over him.'
'Ah! They suspect foul play?'
'Yes. They are still seeking the visitor. They have not found him. Apparently, they have gained no clew to his identity.'
'Do you know who he is -'
'Yes.'
'Who?'
'Myself.'
Guthrie uttered the last word in a bold, deliberate manner. Lucien Partridge seemed staggered. He stared at his visitor in a startled manner, totally unable to recover from his surprise.
'Listen to me, Partridge,' pleaded Guthrie. 'I'll tell you all I know— why I am here—everything. You will believe me?'
'You are my friend,' replied Partridge simply. 'I believe my friends.'
A relieved expression swept over Lawrence Guthrie's visage. He felt free to speak, and his words shouted a new confidence.
'I went to see Forster that night,' he explained. 'Forster summoned me there. Unfortunately, we had a
