“I was dreaming,” he muttered foolishly. “I thought I saw a man standing by the door.”
Mr. Robinson swung round and peered into the passage; there was no one there. Absolute silence still reigned in the house. And then suddenly he rose and went to the door: it seemed to him as if something had stirred outside. But the passage was empty, and he resumed his seat. He felt angry with himself because his own nerves were not quite under their usual iron control. After all, what could possibly happen? It must be the strain of the last few days, he decided.
Slowly the minutes ticked on, and had anyone been there to see, it must have seemed like some ceremony of black magic. The furnace glowing white hot, and in the circle of light thrown by it two elderly men sitting in chairs—one gently stroking his mutton-chop whiskers, the other muttering restlessly to himself. And then outside the ring of light—darkness. Every now and then a sizzling hiss came from inside the furnace, as the chemical process advanced another stage towards completion—that completion which meant all power to one of the two who watched and waited, and death to the other. The sweat dripped down their faces; breathing was hard in the dried-up air. But to Mr. Robinson nothing mattered: such things were trifles. Whatever might be the material discomfort, it was the crowning moment of his life—the moment when the greatest coup of his career had come to a successful conclusion.
And suddenly he shut his watch with a snap.
“Two hours,” he cried, and strive as he would he could not keep the exultation out of his voice. “The time is up.”
With a start Professor Goodman scrambled to his feet, and mumbling foolishly he switched off the current. It was over; he had given away his secret. And all he wanted to do now was to get home as soon as possible. Two hours more to let it cool …
He paused, motionless, his lips twitching. Great heavens! what was that in the door—that great dark shape. It was moving, and he screamed. It was coming into the circle of light, and as he screamed again, Mr. Robinson leapt to his feet.
Once more the thing moved, and now the light from the furnace shone on it. It was Drummond, his arms still lashed in front of him. His face was covered with blood, but his eyes were fixed on Professor Goodman. And they were the eyes of a homicidal maniac.
For a moment or two Mr. Robinson stood motionless, staring at him. Drummond’s appearance was so utterly unexpected and terrifying that his brain refused to work, and before he realised what had happened, Drummond sprang. But not at him. It was Professor Goodman who had evidently incurred the madman’s wrath, and the reason was soon obvious. Insane though he was, the one dominant idea of his life was still a ruling factor in his actions, though now it was uncontrolled by any reason. And that idea was Peterson.
Why he should imagine that Professor Goodman was Peterson it was impossible to say, but he undoubtedly did. Again and again he grunted the name as he shook the unfortunate scientist backwards and forwards, and for a while Mr. Robinson wondered cynically whether he should let him go on in his delusion and await results. He was almost certain to kill the old man, which might save trouble. At the same time there was still the possibility of some mistake in the process, which rendered it inadvisable to dispense with him for good quite yet.
An uproar in the passage outside took him to the door. Two of the three men who had been told off to guard Drummond were running towards him, and he cursed them savagely.
“Pull him off,” he roared. “He’ll murder the old man.”
They hurled themselves on Drummond, who had forced the Professor to his knees. And this time, strangely enough, he gave no trouble. He looked at them with a vacant stare, and then grinned placidly.
“Chief!” cried one of the men, “he’s murdered Simpson. He’s lying there with his neck broken.”
Mr. Robinson darted from the room, to return almost at once. It was only too true. The third man was lying across the bed dead.
“Where were you two imbeciles?” he snarled savagely.
“We were taking it in turns, boss,” said the one who had spoken, sullenly. “The swine was asleep and his arms were bound …”
He turned vindictively on Drummond, who grinned vacantly again.
“So you left him alone with only one of you,” Mr. Robinson remarked coldly. “You fools!—you triple-distilled damned fools. And then I suppose he woke and Simpson went to tuck him up. And Drummond just took him by the throat, and killed him, as he’d kill you or anyone else he got his hands on—bound or not.”
“Gug-gug,” said Drummond, sitting down and beaming at them. “That man in there hit me in the face, when I took his throat in my hands.”
And suddenly the madness returned to his eyes, and his huge hands strained and wrestled with the rope that bound them. He grunted and cursed, and the two men instinctively backed away. Only Mr. Robinson remained where he was, and the light from the still glowing furnace glinted on the revolver which he held in his hand. This was no time for half-measures; there was no telling what this powerful madman might do next. If necessary, though he did not want to have to do it, he would shoot him where he sat. But the spasm passed, and he lowered his revolver.
“Just so,” he remarked. “You might as well hit a steamroller as hit Drummond, once he’s got hold. And judging by his face, Simpson must have hit him hard and often before he died. Take him away; lash him up; and unless you
