Dr. van Heerden could admire the ingenuity of his enemy and could kill him. He was a man whose mental poise permitted the paradox of detached attachments. At first he had regarded Stanford Beale as a smart police officer, the sort of man whom Pinkerton and Burns turn out by the score. Shrewd, assertive, indefatigable, such men piece together the scattered mosaics of humdrum crimes, and by their mechanical patience produce for the satisfaction of courts sufficient of the piece to reveal the design. They figure in divorce suits, in financial swindles and occasionally in more serious cases.
Van Heerden knew instinctively their limitations and had too hastily placed Beale in a lower category than he deserved. Van Heerden came to his workroom by way of the buffet which he had established for the use of his employees. As he shut the steel door behind him he saw Milsom standing at the rough wooden sideboard which served as bar and table for the workers.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," said Milsom, and then quickly, as he read the other's face: "Anything wrong?"
"If the fact that the cleverest policeman in America or England is at present on the premises can be so described, then everything is wrong," said van Heerden, and helped himself to a drink.
"Here—in the laboratory?" demanded Milsom, fear in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you," said the other, and gave the story as he had heard it from Hilda Glaum.
"He's in the old passage, eh?" said Milsom, thoughtfully, "well there's no reason why he should get out—alive."
"He won't," said the other.
"Was he followed—you saw nobody outside?"
"We have nothing to fear on that score. He's working on his own."