The great inventor smiled in a superior fashion.
'Why, my dear fellow, yes!' he assented. 'I killed them. You see that little skein of what seems to be white silk? If a million people had trodden upon it, one after the other, or if I in my car had been twenty miles away, with my instrument properly regulated, there would still be a million dead lying here. I am Moreton—Ned Moreton, the inventor, you know, doctor. I can strip the universe of life, if I choose. I should have liked,' he added, glancing a little peevishly over his shoulder, 'the young lady to have seen this. I shall make a point of her coming on to the hospital.'
The doctor glanced meaningly at the two or three policemen who had forced their way to the front. They led Mr. Moreton back to the car, and a few minutes later he was driven off, seated between them, smoking a cigar, the picture of amiability. Suzanne and Lavendale found a taxicab and left the park by another exit. She sat close to him, clinging to his arm.
'Suzanne,' he whispered, 'can you be a woman now for the sake of the great things?'
She sat up by his side. Her face was marble white, but some latent force seemed to have asserted itself. She answered him steadily.
'Go on, Ambrose,' she begged. 'I can listen. Do not be afraid.'
'I have told this man,' he continued, 'to drive to the docks. The Marabic is sailing at five o'clock.'
She looked at him for a moment as though she failed to understand. His arm tightened around her.
'I have the instruments and a skein of the thread in my pocket,' he whispered.
A sudden light flashed in her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him firmly and deliberately upon the lips.