Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

McArthur watched it until it had turned another bend in the distance, and its racing hum had died away.

He struck matches and investigated the easiest way out of the cornfield. The touring car was of no further use to him, although it did not appear to be badly-damaged. He left it in the mud, and floundered up the embankment to the highway.

How soon would the gangsters miss him? Would they continue in the belief that he had gained a long lead? How far would they go in the hope of sighting him?

To South Wyndham, probably. They knew that James Ward had died there.

He busied himself by trying to set up the broken fence.

He could find only half of it, however, and had not succeeded in bracing that when he became aware of more lights playing on the tree-tops. Listening intently, he found to his delight that this car, also, was coming from the north.

It was traveling at considerable speed, with a rattling and sobbing which told of a motor in need of repair. McArthur knew the difficulty in persuading motorists to stop on lonely roads at night. Waiting until the psychological instant, he rushed squarely out on the road, blocking it with the splintered section of fence.

The machine stopped.

“Don’t shoot, neighbor,” a voice requested uneasily. “I ain’t got no money here. Just hens.”

“Say, brother,” the inventor requested, throwing aside the piece of fence and blinking into the lights, “I’ve got to reach South Wyndham on a serious matter, and my car’s gone over the embankment. Can you help me out?”

“Sure thing. Get in.”

Advancing, he saw a little, wizened man with a winter coat-collar turned up and a soft straw hat. He took the seat beside him, expressing thanks.

“How fur was you goin’, neighbor? I’m only goin’ down to North Rockford depot. Got to get these reds on the mornin’ freight.”

McArthur saw crates filled with hens in the back of the car. “Is there any one at North Rockford I can hire to drive me?”

“Sure. Tom Springer’ll be glad to do it.”

Springer did not have to be awakened. He was working at the railroad station. He had a closed car, and he started with the inventor at once. The latter kept a sharp watch for his enemies all the way.

Between Rockford and Wyndham they met the gangsters’ large sedan. McArthur recognized it instantly; and a swift glance assured him that all four men were inside. He felt certain that they had not seen him in Springer’s machine, for they continued northward. They were proceeding at moderate speed.

At the entrance to the sanatorium he paid the man and thanked him. He hurried up the winding driveway to the entrance. A few lights were burning upstairs. He rang. An orderly answered.

“I had a telegram from Mrs. James Ward—”

The man, a short, dark fellow, looked curiously at him. “Yes, sir. Come in.”

McArthur entered — then started. He recognized this orderly. It was the burglar who had broken into his laboratory at home, presumably upon another’s instigation, and had later jumped bail.

“Collins!” the inventor exclaimed. He did not finish. He was conscious of something which crashed down upon his head.

McArthur was surprised by his swift return to the laboratory. He couldn’t quite understand how he had arrived there so quickly. He remembered traveling to South Wyndham. It was bewildering.

Yet it was true. All around was his apparatus of physical and chemical research. No — not his apparatus, after all. He hadn’t three racks of test tubes. He hadn’t a distilling system set up. No — this was the laboratory on the grounds at South Wyndham.

And who was this man? A small, thin, pale man, with glasses and watery eyes. This wasn’t Collins, the orderly, the burglar. But he had seen this man in court, too—

“Muir!” said McArthur.

He blinked, and attempted to rise. He failed. Presently he perceived the reason. His arms, knees and waist were tightly lashed to a chair and the chair was fast to a sink behind his back.

“What the devil?” he muttered uncertainly. His brain had not cleared.

“Don’t shout — the walls are thick,” advised Muir, in a toneless voice. He was busy mixing something in a flask. An acid bottle and several other containers were at his elbow.

“What’s the idea?” McArthur ventured.

“You’ll see pretty soon. You gave the boys a nice run for their money, didn’t you? Pretty smooth customer, you are. But I think you’ll realize in a few minutes that you’d have been better off if you’d let Brick alone.” Muir went on working.

The inventor looked around. There were ground-glass windows, still dark, and the door was closed. He recalled that the laboratory stood at some distance from the sanatorium.

“So I’m indebted to Edgerly and Marsh for this favor?”

“Edgerly doesn’t know anything about our little party,” returned the other. “He’s gone South for a rest. As for Marsh — he’ll live longer than you will, McArthur.”

He had begun to grind something with a mortar and pestle,