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  CHAPTER V. THE MERCY SIGN--TWO

  Some days after the recovery of the houseboat, Average Jones sat atbreakfast, according to his custom, in the cafe of the Hotel Palatia.Several matters were troubling his normally serene mind. First of thesewas the loss of the trail which should have led to Harvey Craig. Second,as a minor issue, the Oriental papers found in the deserted BellairStreet apartment had been proved, by translation, to consist mainly ofrevolutionary sound and fury, signifying, to the person most concerned,nothing. As for the issue of the Washington daily, culled from thehouseboat, there was, amidst the usual melange of social, diplomatic,political and city news, no marked passage to show any reason for itshaving been in the possession of "Smith." Average Jones had studied andrestudied the columns, both reading matter and advertising, until heknew them almost by heart. During the period of waiting for his orderto be brought he was brooding over the problem, when he felt ahand-pressure on his shoulder and turned to confront Mr. Thomas ColvinMcIntyre, solemn of countenance and groomed with a supernal modesty ofelegance, as befitted a rising young diplomat, already Fifth AssistantSecretary of State of the United States of America.

  "Hello, Tommy," said the breakfaster. "What'll you have to drink? Anentente cordialer?"

  "Don't joke," said the other. "I'm in a pale pink funk. I'm afraid tolook into the morning papers."

  "Hello! What have you been up to that's scandalous?"

  "It isn't me," replied the diplomat ungrammatically. "It's Telfik Bey."

  "Telfik Bey? Wait a minute. Let me think." The name had struck aresponse from some thought wire within Average Jones' perturbed brain.Presently it came to him as visualized print in small head-lines,reproduced to the mind's eye from the Washington newspaper which he hadso 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, was brief,and of no intrinsic importance other than as a social note. But toAverage 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, ifyou choose to put it that way."

  The tone was significant. Average Jones' good natured face became grave.

  "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 waistcoat hebrought 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 stopped shortbefore the enormity of the hypothesis.

  "It looks straight enough to me as a death notice, except for the tail.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 what you'reup to, Jones," he said. "But if you do know anything of this case I needyour help. In Washington, where they failed, we fooled the 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, of course.My instructions are to find out secretly, if at all. For if it doesget into the newspapers there'll be the very deuce to pay. It isn'tdesirable that even Telfik Bey's presence here should have been knownfor reasons which--ah--(here Average Jones remarked the resumption ofhis friend's official bearing)--which, not being for the public, I neednot 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 newspapers have youthere?"

  "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... Turkishminister notified."

  "Is that all?"

  "Practically."

  "And the other reports?"

  Average Jones ran them swiftly over. "About the same. Hold on! Here's alittle something extra in the Universal."

  "'Found on the floor... bell-boy who discovered the tragedy collapses...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'tyou 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 a merchant.He is a secret, confidential agent of the Turkish government. He cameover to New York from Washington in spite of warnings that he would bekilled."

  "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 a wound."

  "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 for themanager."

  That functionary came, a vision of perturbation in a pale-gray coat.Upon assurance that Average Jones was "safe" he led the way to the roomsso hastily vacated by the spirit of the Turkish guest.

  "We've succeeded in keeping two recent suicides and a blackmail schemein this hotel out of the newspapers," observed the manager morosely."But this would be the worst of all. If I could have known, when theTurkish Embassy reserved the apartment--"

  "The Turkish Embassy never reserved any apartment for Telfik Bey," putin 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, either thethird 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 to theinterrogator'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 the TurkishEmbassy be likely to send its men?"

&nb
sp; "Sometimes their charge d'affaires goes to the Nederstrom."

  "Go up there and find out whether a room has been reserved for TelfikBey, 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 the capacity of amessenger 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 in theTurk's room here."

  Numbers 335 and 336, which the manager opened, after the prompt ifsomewhat sulky departure of Mr. McIntyre, proved to consist of a smallsitting room, a bedroom and a bath, each with a large window giving onthe cross-street, well back from Fifth Avenue.

  "Here's where he was found." The manager indicated a spot near the wallof the sitting-room and opposite the window. "He had just pushed thebutton when he fell."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Bronson, the bell-boy on that call, answered. He knocked several timesand got no answer. Then he opened the door and saw Mr. Telfik down, allin 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 he openedthe door he saw a bullet cross the room and strike the wall above thebody."

  "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 elevator whenhe fell, in a sort of fainting fit. He came to long enough to tell hisstory. 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. She must haveseen anyone going in."

  "Has she anything to add?"

  "She heard the shot. And a minute or two before, she had heard and felta 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," continued themanager.

  Evidence of the explosion was slight to the investigating eye of AverageJones. The wall showed an abrasion, but, as the investigator expected,no bullet hole. Against the leg of a desk he found 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's a verysmall fulminate of mercury shell, and never held lead. No. The man wasdown, if not dead, before that went off."

  Average Jones was now at the window. Taking a piece of paper from hispocket he brushed the contents of the window-sill upon it. A dozen deadflies rolled upon the paper. He examined them thoughtfully, cast themaside and turned back to the manager.

  "Who occupy the adjoining rooms?"

  "Two maiden ladies did, on the east. They've left," said the managerbitterly. "Been coming here for ten years, and now they've quit. If thefacts 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 rooms atthe 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, of Wilmington,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 the manager."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 Glenargan apartmentbuilding, facing the Nederstrom Hotel. The last one had been let twoweeks before to--this he ascertained by judicious questioning--adark, foreign gentleman who was an expert on rugs. Well satisfied, theinvestigator crossed over to the skyscraper across from the Palatia.There he demanded of the superintendent a single office on the thirdfloor, facing north. He was taken to a clean and vacant room. One glanceout of the window showed him his handkerchief, not opposite, but well tothe 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 up tillday after tomorrow, and his things are there yet. He told the janitor,though, that he was leaving town and wouldn't bother to take away thethings. They aren't worth much. Here's the place."

  They entered the office. In it were only a desk, two chairs and a scrapbasket. The basket was crammed with newspapers. One of them was theHotel Register. Average Jones found Telfik Bey's name, as he hadexpected, 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 anything else,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 his littlepackage? That sick he was he couldn't hardly walk alone."

  Average Jones pondered a moment. "Do you think he could have passed thenight here?"

  "I know he did," was the prompt response. "The scrubwoman heard him whenshe came this morning."

  "Heard him?"

  "Yes' sir. Sobbing, like."

  The nerves of Average Jones gave a sharp "kickback," like a mis-crankedmotor-car. His trend of thought had suddenly been reversed. The deviousand scientific slayer of Telfik Bey in tears? It seemed completely outof the picture.

  "You may go," said he, and seating himself at the desk, proceeded to anexamination of his newly acquired property. The newspapers in the scrapbasket, mainly copies of the Evening Register, seemed to contain, uponcursory examination, nothing germane to the issue. But, scattered amongthem, the searcher found a number of fibrous chips. They were short andthick; such chips as might be made by cutting a bamboo pole into crosslengths, convenient for carrying.

  "The 'spirit-wand,"' observed Average Jones with gusto. "That was the'little package,' of course."

  Next, he turned his attention to the desk. It was bare, except for afew scraps of paper and some writing implements. But in a crevice thereshone a glimmer of glass. With a careful finger-nail Average Jonespushed out a small phial. It had evidently been sealed with lead.Nothing was in it.

  Its discoverer leaned back and contemplated it with stiffened eyelids.For, upon its tiny, improvised label was scrawled the "Mercy sign;"mysterious bef
ore, 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 slowly andconsideringly 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 uniformed urchinwho answered the call. The modern mercury seized the paper and fledforthwith.

  Punctuality was a virtue which Average Jones had cultivated to thepoint of a fad. Hence it was with some discountenance that his clerk wasobliged to apologize for his lateness, first, at 4 P. M. Of July 23,to a very dapper and spruce young gentleman in pale mauve spats, whowouldn't give his name; then at 4:05 P. m. of the same day to ProfessorGehren, of the Metropolitan University; and finally at 4:30 P. m. to Mr.Robert Bertram. When, only a moment before five, the Ad-Visor entered,the manner of his apology was more absent than fervent.

  Bertram held out a newspaper to him.

  "Cast your eye on that," said he. "The Register fairly reeks with freakslately."

  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't it? H.C.--what's that? And signed Mercy. Why, it's the work of a lunatic!"

  "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," he continued.

  "If H. C. indicates Harvey Craig, as I infer," said Professor Gehrenimpatiently, "are you so infantile as to suppose that his murderer willgive information about him?"

  Average Jones smiled, drew a letter from his pocket, glanced at it andcalled for a number in Hackensack.

  "Take the 'phone, Professor Gehren," he said, when the reply came. "It'sthe Cairnside Hospital. Ask for information about Harvey Craig."

  With absorbed intentness the other three listened to the one-sidedconversation.

  "Hello!... May I speak to Mr. Harvey Craig's doctor?... This isProfessor Gehren of the Metropolitan University... Thank you, Doctor.How is he?... Very grave?... Ah, has been very grave .... Wholly out ofdanger?... What was the nature of his illness?

  "When may I see him?... Very well. I will visit the hospital to-morrowmorning. Thank you.... I should have expected that you would notify meof 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 aforeigner who left a large sum of money to pay for his care, andcertain suggestions for his treatment. One detail, carefully set downin writing, was that if reddish or purple dots appeared under Harvey'snails, he was to be told that Mr. Smith released him and advised hissending 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 the CairnsideHospital's telephone number. "The advertisement worked to a charm. Mr.Smith gives his address in this, and intimates that I may call uponhim."

  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 accompany you?"inquired Professor Gehren.

  "If you care to take the risk."

  "Think there'll be excitement?" asked Bertram languidly. "I'd like to goalong."

  Average Jones nodded. "One or a dozen; I fancy it will be all the sameto 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," suggested Mr.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't quiteaccurately place her as yet. Here's the taxi," he broke off. "All aboardthat's going aboard. But it's likely to be dangerous."

  Across town and far up the East Side whizzed the car, over the bridgethat leads away from Manhattan Island to the north, and through quietstreets as little known to the average New Yorker as are Hong Kong andCaracas. In front of a frame house it stopped. On a side porch, overwhich bright roses swarmed like children clambering into a hospitablelap, sat a man with a gray face. He was tall and slender, and his hair,a dingy black, was already showing worn streaks where the color hadfaded. At Average Jones he gazed with unconcealed surprise.

  "Ah; it is you!" he exclaimed. "You," he smiled, "are the 'Mercy' of theadvertisement?"

  "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 older oneunhesitatingly grasped it. Average Jones turned the long fingers, whichenclosed 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 sorely regretted itif--"

  Professor Gehren broke in upon him. "For the peril in which you haveinvolved him, sir, you have to answer to me, his guardian."

  The foreigner raised a hand. "He was without family or ties. I toldhim the danger. He accepted it. Once he was careless--and one is notcareless twice in that work. But he was fortunate, too. I, also,was fortunate in that the task was then so far advanced that I couldcomplete it alone. I got him to the hospital at night; no matter how.For his danger and illness I have indemnified him in the sum of tenthousand 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 how TelfikBey"--his eyes narrowed and glinted--"came to his reward. Will youenter, gentlemen?"

  "I know this much," replied Average Jones as, followed by his friends,he passed through the door which their host held open. "With young Craigas an assistant, you prepared, in the loneliest part of the HackensackMeadows, some kind of poison which, I believe, can be made with safetyonly 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 he wouldprobably put up at the Palatia or the Nederstrom, you reserved rooms forhim at both, and took an office across from each. As it was hot weather,you calculated upon his windows being open. You watched for him. When hecame you struck him down in his own room with 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 was ablow-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 of theapartment gave a long ran
ge, where Mr.--er--Smith could practice. He hada sort of target on the window, and every time he blew 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 Colvin McIntyre.

  "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 fulminate ofmercury 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 that best.Though--er--I think the shell was blown through the blowpipe to clearthe deadly fumes from the room by its explosion, before any one elseshould suffer. Smith is, at least, not a wanton slaughterer."

  "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 aman avenger. It would have gone hard with my conscience had any innocentperson met death through me. As for that Turkish dog, you shall judgefor 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 bald accountof the torture, outrage and massacre of Armenian women and girls,at Adana, by the Turks. The most hideous portion of it was brieflydescriptive of the atrocities perpetrated by order of a high Turkishofficial upon a mother and two young daughters. "An Armenian prisoner,being dragged by in chains, went mad at the sight," the correspondentstated.

  "I was that prisoner," said the reader. "The official was Telfik Bey. Isaw my naked daughter break from the soldiers and run to him, pleadingfor pity, as he sat his horse; and I saw him strike his spur into herbare breast. My wife, the mother of my children--"

  "Don't!" The protest came from the Fifth Assistant Secretary of State.

  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 my duty todo. This man has made a confession."

  "Your pardon," said the foreigner. "I have lived and fed on and sleptwith that memory, ever since. On my release I left my country. Theenterprise of which I had been the head, dye-stuff manufacturing, hadinterested me in chemistry. I went to England to study further. Thence Icame 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 advice fromWashington."

  "You, may save yourself the trouble, I think, Tommy," drawled AverageJones. "Mr. Smith will never be called to account in this world for themurder--execution of Telfik Bey."

  "You saw the marks on my finger-nails," said the foreigner. "That is thesure sign. I may live twenty-four hours; I may live twice or three timesthat period. The poison does its work, once it gets into the blood, andthere is no help. It matters nothing. My ambition 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 doomed man,with a smile. "You will find useful references on yonder shelf, Mr.Jones."

  Moving across to the shelf, Average Jones took down a heavy volume andran quickly over the leaves.

  "Ah!" he said presently, and not noticing, in his absorption, that thehost had crossed again to the tiroir and was quietly searching in acompartment, 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, the Germanchemist, combined oxide of cacodyl with cyanogen, a radical of prussicacid, producing cyanide of cacodyl, or diniethyl arsine cyanide. Asboth of its components are of the deadliest description, it is extremelydangerous to make. It can be made only in the open air, and not withoutthe most extreme precaution known to science. Mr. Lacelles Scott, ofEngland, nearly lost his life experimenting with it in 1904. A smallfraction of a grain gives off vapor sufficient to kill a human beinginstantly."

  "Had you known about this stuff, Average?" asked Bertram.

  "No, I'd never beard of it. But from its action and from the letteredcabinet, I judged that--"

  "This is all very well," broke in Mr. Assistant Secretary Thomas ColvinMcIntyre, "but I want this man arrested. How can we know that he isn'tshamming 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, followedby the light tinkle of glass.

  Average Jones, who had half crossed the room in a leap, turned to hisfriends, 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 a rearwindow, leaped to the ground, followed by the others, and came aroundthe corner of the porch. The dead man lay with peaceful face. ProfessorGehren 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'm glad heescaped. But what am I to do? Here we are with a dead body on our hands,and a state secret to be kept from the prying police."

  Average Jones stood thinking for a moment, then he entered the room andcalled up the coroner's office on the telephone.

  "Listen, you men," he said to his companions. Then, to the official whoanswered: "There's a suicide at 428 Oliver Avenue, the Bronx. Four ofus witnessed it. We had come to keep an appointment with the man inconnection with a discovery he claimed in metallurgy, and found himdying. Yes; we will wait here. Good-by."

  Returning to the porch again, he cleared away the fragments of glass,aided by Bertram. To one of these clung a shred of paper. For all hislanguid self-control the club dilettante shivered a little as he thrustat it with a stick.

  "Look, Average, it's the 'Mercy' sign again. What a hideous travesty!"

  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.The formula 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 on him,"said Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, with a semi-hysterical giggle.

  Average Jones looked from the peaceful face of the dead to the label,fluttering in the light breeze.

  "No," he said gravely. "You were wrong. It was his friend to the last."