"Then Taylor Dodge is dead!" he exclaimed, throwing off his acid-stained laboratory smock and hurrying into his street clothes.
"Impossible!" I ejaculated.
Kennedy paid no attention to the objection. "Come, Walter," he urged.
"We must hurry, before the trail gets cold."
There was something positively uncanny about Kennedy's assurance. I doubted—yet I feared.
It was well past the middle of the night when we pulled up in a night-hawk taxicab before the Dodge house, mounted the steps and rang the bell.
Jennings answered sleepily, but not so much so that he did not recognize me. He was about to bang the door shut when Kennedy interposed his foot.
"Where is Mr. Dodge?" asked Kennedy. "Is he all right?"
"Of course he is—in bed," replied the butler.
Just then we heard a faint cry, like nothing exactly human. Or was it our heightened imaginations, under the spell of the darkness?
"Listen!" cautioned Kennedy.