Weak and ill, Sturgis, with blanched face, clung unsteadily, with one hand, to the railing; while, with the other, he pointed toward the lead-lined vat, whose dark viscous contents were bubbling like boiling oil.
A pungent vapor rose in dense clouds from the surface of the liquid. Through it the fascinated gaze of the horrified men vaguely discerned a nameless thing, tossed in weird and grotesque contortions in a seething vortex.
Murdock had escaped the justice of men.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MURDER SYNDICATE.
"See here, Sturgis; this won't do. I forbade you to do a stroke of work to-day, or even to leave your bed; and here you are scribbling away just as though nothing had happened. I tell you when a man has had the narrow squeak you have, there has been a tremendous strain upon his heart, and it is positively dangerous——"
"Don't scold, old man; I have never in my life been better than I feel to-day. And besides, this work could not be postponed——"
"Oh, pshaw! That is what nine out of every ten patients say to their physician. They are modestly convinced that the world must needs come to a standstill if they cannot accomplish their tiny mite of work. What do you suppose the world would have done had you and Sprague remained in Murdock's death chamber yesterday? I'll tell you. The Tempest would have printed two eulogistic obituary notices; and then the world would have hobbled on, just as though the greatest detective of the age and the modern Raphael had not been snuffed out of existence."
Doctor Thurston, who had assumed his frown of professional severity, proceeded to feel the reporter's pulse.