“Why, certainly, Mr. Peters,” he agreed readily. He helped himself to a cigar, and sat down in a chair. “I'm sorry if it's as bad as that.”
Larmon made no answer, save to nod his head gravely as he stepped quickly toward the door of the apartment's adjoining room.
Crang struck a match and lighted his cigar. The door of the connecting room closed behind Larmon. A cloud of blue smoke veiled Crang's face—and a leer that lighted his suddenly narrowed eyes.
“So that's it, is it?” grinned Crang to himself. “I wondered how he was going to work it! Well, I guess he would have got away with it, too—if I hadn't got away with it first!”
He sat motionless in his chair—and listened. And suddenly he smiled maliciously. The sound of running water from a tap turned on somewhere on the other side of the connecting door reached him faintly.
“And now a little salt!” murmured Doctor Sydney
Angus Crang. He blew a smoke ring into the air and watched it dissolve. “And, presto!—like the smoke ring—nothing!”
The minutes passed, perhaps five of them, and then the door opened again and Larmon reappeared.
“I'm ready now,” he announced quietly. “Shall we go?”
Crang rose from his chair.