"It's all right, Michael," reassured Craig calmly. "All right, Walter," he added to me.
The gun dropped back into the footman's pocket. We entered and Michael again locked the door. Not a word had been spoken by him so far.
Next Michael moved to the center of the room and, as I realized later, brought himself in direct lines with the open window. He seemed to be overcome with fear at his betrayal and stood there breathing heavily.
"Professor Kennedy," he began, "I have been so mistreated that I have made up my mind to tell you all I know about this Clutching—"
Suddenly he drew a sharp breath and both his hands clutched at his own breast. He did not stagger and fall in the ordinary manner, but seemed to bend at the knees and waist and literally crumple down on his face.
We ran to him. Craig turned him over gently on his back and examined him. He called. No answer. Michael was almost pulseless.
Quickly Craig tore off his collar and bared his breast, for the man seemed to be struggling for breath. As he did so, he drew from Michael's chest a small, sharp-pointed dart.
"What's that?" I ejaculated, horror stricken.
"A poisoned blow gun dart such as is used by the South American Indians on the upper Orinoco," he said slowly.
He examined it carefully.