restorative had the slightest effect upon him. His face was grayish; his breathing came slowly, painfully, in a ceaseless monotone.
'What is it, doc?' asked the house dick, his own face strained.
'It looks like sleeping sickness,' returned the physician. 'All the symptoms of trypanosomiasis. And yet' -
the doctor looked around the room suspiciously - 'it is strange that it should have come so suddenly. This case is unusual. This patient must be taken to the hospital at once!'
The physician was still shaking his head when Thurnig was removed to be put in an ambulance. It was the house detective, standing alone in the room, who had the next suspicion. He even sniffed the air as he prowled about, but the odor of the yellow gas had departed long ago.
Then came the discovery that ended all suspicion. The dick found Thurnig's wallet, lying in plain view; he gawked when he saw the bundle of currency. After he had counted the money he called a bellboy, watched the fellow's eyes bulge.
'From the way the doc was puzzled,' said the detective, 'I thought maybe something had been done to Thurnig. But this shows nobody was in it. No crooks would have taken a whack at a guy and left all this dough loose!'
Crime had served itself, with George Thurnig as the victim. Crime that lay as deeply hidden as the purpose that inspired it. For that crime had seemingly ignored the very end for which crooks strive: that of quick, easy profit.
Thurnig's twenty thousand dollars, left untouched, was a smoke screen as effective as the mysterious yellow vapor that had faded into nothingness.
There was an added element to the mystery of George Thurnig; one that concerned the victim's own condition. It was summed up by the physician, who was driving alone to the hospital.
'For a moment,' muttered the doctor, 'I might have pronounced him dead. Yet he is alive - a dead man who lives.'
CHAPTER II. THE SECOND THRUST
THE name of George Thurnig was headlined the next morning. His case closely resembled that baffling ailment known as sleeping sickness, which always becomes news.
Though physicians refused to make definite statements, the newspapers played up the possibility of an epidemic. Plenty of New Yorkers failed to enjoy their breakfasts; took cabs to their offices to avoid the subways, where germs might lurk.
The news wasn't the sort to please the average reader, but there was one man upon whom it had a remarkable effect.
He was a portly, heavy-jowled individual, who was riding in a cab only because he detested subway crowds and the exertion of climbing stairs. He was in a taxi when he saw Thurnig's name in the newspaper.
Instant interest registered on the portly man's flabby face. His eyes, ordinarily small, opened so wide that they became large. When the cab stopped at an office building, he slapped a bill into the driver's hand without waiting for change. Showing a surprising burst of speed, the portly man reached the elevator and wedged through just as the operator was closing the door.
The building was a small one; the elevator slow. The portly man chafed until he reached the fifth floor.
Once off the car, he bounded for the door that bore his own name and business: MARTIN BRELLICK
Homecraft Correspondence Courses
Brellick's suite of offices was not so elaborate as its title implied. The rooms were tiny, and consisted merely of an outer office and an inner one marked 'PRIVATE'. Stacked on shelves in the outer office were sheaves of flimsy pamphlets, each group labeled as a different type of homecraft.
There was one stenographer in the outer office; she was staring, unconcerned, from the window when Brellick entered. She looked about blankly, for sight of Brellick in a hurry was something unusual.
Brellick didn't stop to say good morning. He pounded into the private office, snatched up a telephone and clicked at the receiver. When he finally slammed down the instrument in disgust, he saw the stenographer standing in the doorway, fluffing her peroxide-dyed hair, while her jaw worked at chewing gum.
'What's the matter with this telephone?' demanded Brellick.
'Out of order,' replied the stenographer, in a weary tone. 'I've sent for the repair men.'
'Take a letter,' snapped Brellick. 'No - make it a telegram.'
The girl shrugged her shoulders, went back to her desk to obtain a telegraph blank. The correspondence course man followed.
'To the Apex Loan Company,' began Brellick. 'Will need ten thousand dollars -'
Brellick paused, suddenly opened the telephone book, to look up other names. The stenographer looked at him as though she thought him crazy.
'You got that loan, Mr. Brellick,' she began. 'Don't you remember? The bank said you could have it, last week.'
'I need ten thousand more.'
'But you already have it! You said you had ten thousand to begin with -'
Brellick glowered an interruption.
'My finances are my business,' he declared, testily. 'But since you seem to think they are yours as well, I might as well make it plain. I wanted twenty thousand dollars. I had ten thousand to begin with, so I arranged to borrow ten thousand. Is that clear?'
The girl nodded.
'And now I want to borrow ten thousand more,' continued Brellick. 'What does that mean?'
The stenographer's jaw slackened.
'You want thirty thousand!' she exclaimed.
'Bright girl!' rejoined Brellick. 'Yes, I want thirty thousand dollars. The deal I'm going into may be larger than I expected. A friend of mine' - Brellick chuckled deeply - 'may be dropping out of it!'
THE telephone repair man arrived in the outer office. Brellick decided to let the telegram go, hoping that the phone would soon be available. The repair man started testing the wire in the outer office. Brellick retired to his inner office; he was there when the stenographer ushered in a dry-faced man who carried a doctor's satchel. Brellick recognized him.
'Hello, doctor!' said the portly man. 'You're the medical examiner from the Southeastern Mutual, aren't you?'
The physician nodded; he began to unpack a stethoscope.
'Some mistake,' remarked Brellick. 'I haven't applied for any more life insurance.'
The doctor, himself, looked puzzled. Then:
'This must be a special examination,' he declared. 'Possibly to learn if you are entitled to preferred class rates. I received word to come here.'
'Go ahead with it, then,' grumbled Brellick. 'I'm handcuffed, anyway, until they get the telephone fixed.'
The doctor completed the examination. Brellick walked out through the outer office, chatting with him.
Tapping his heart, the portly man remarked:
'So the old ticker's all right, eh, doc?'
'Excellent!' returned the physician. 'Particularly for a man of your weight.'
In the hallway was a listener - a man in overalls. Brellick took him to be the repair man's assistant. It was after Brellick had returned to his inner office that the fellow entered, to speak to the stenographer.
'There's a phone call for Mr. Brellick,' he said. 'In the pay booth back of the drug store downstairs.
Whoever is calling says it's important.'
The man in overalls was gone when Brellick came pouncing out of the inner office, after the stenographer had relayed the message. He hurried to the elevator and went to the street floor. He had to go into the next building to reach the passage that led beyond the drug store. There, in a dingy corner, Brellick found the telephone booth.
The door of the booth was open; the telephone receiver was hanging loose. Brellick gathered it up, gave a
