Sturgis listened with deep attention to his friend's narrative, and ruminated in silence long after the artist had ceased speaking.
At last he started up with a sudden exclamation, and walking over to the side of the tank, he looked into the depths of its oily contents, as if fascinated by some horrible thing he saw there.
Sprague came and stood beside him and gazed curiously into the viscous liquid. There was nothing there that he could see.
"What is it?" he asked.
Without replying, Sturgis took from his pocket a bone-handled knife and carefully dipped one end of the handle into the fluid in the leaden tank. At once the liquid began to seethe and boil, giving out dark pungent fumes.
"I thought so," muttered the reporter, under his breath; "that man is truly a genius—the genius of evil."
"Who?" asked Sprague.
Sturgis made no reply. His eyes were wandering about the room, as if in search of something.
"Hand me a couple of those long glass tubes from that shelf yonder," he said, earnestly.
The artist complied with the request. Dipping these tubes into the oily liquid, Sturgis, after considerable difficulty, managed to seize with them a small dark object which lay at the bottom of the tank. With infinite precaution, he brought it to the surface. It had the appearance of a flattened leaden bullet.