"It seems betchune time I'm waitin' f'r somethin' like that, Y'r Honor," answered the grinning Pat.
"Everything locked up?"
"Yes sir."
"By golly—no!" Pat clasped a hand to his head. "If it ain't me that's always forgittin'. I ain't fixed the bur-r-rglar trap!"
Harrison Grant smiled, then stood watching while Hennessy moved the firing pins of the club's burglar protection into place at the windows. One by one, the triggers of the concealed revolvers were cocked. Then Hennessy, with a little nod, started toward the stairway, Harrison Grant following. A moment later they hesitated at the door, while Hennessy fished for his keys. Then——
The crashing detonation of a revolver shot—from upstairs! Then another and another and another! The men turned. They rushed up the stairway and toward a half open window, through which could be seen the figure of a man, writhing in the agonies of death.
Old he was and bearded, the nostrils covered by a germ mask, his hands protected by rubber gloves. Beside the convulsing figure lay a "pump-gun" or air-injector, and Grant knew the contents—deadly germs!
Out the window went the master-detective, and to the side of the dying man.
"Careful now!" he ordered. "Search him—but look out for cultures and bacteria!"
A moment later and Harrison Grant was in the possession of the thing he sought—a card, carelessly left in the old scientist's pocket in his surety of success, a card which gave his name and address and which sent Harrison Grant scurrying forth to pick up Billy Cavanaugh, one of his favorite operators, and to hurry across town in search of the laboratory that he felt sure the dead bacteriologist had maintained.