“A very unsuspicious article,” he said. “Simply a package of cigarettes. This fellow who called himself Steve Marschik took it from his pocket a short while ago—”
“I saw him put it back,” interjected Ballantyne.
“You saw him put back another pack,” declared Cranston quietly. “I had a similar pack in my pocket. I exchanged it for his. This is the one that Marschik was carrying.”
The package was opened. Two cigarettes slid out and fell on the table. Cranston picked up one and tore the end from it.
Instead of tobacco, flakes of a yellowish powder poured on the table. Cranston swept them into an empty ash tray and examined the substance closely.
Ballantyne and Griscom watched him in amazement. Cranston moistened the tip of his finger and touched the powder. He brushed his hands and stepped back.
The powder began to sizzle. A thin, gaseous smoke arose. A pungent, sulphuric odor pervaded the office. Ballantyne started toward the door.
“It’s all right,” assured Cranston. “It’s over now; I used only a small quantity. You can imagine the result, if the contents of a few of these cigarettes had been poured into a paper cup partly filled with water. The fumes would have gone through the entire theater and—”
“I’m going out to the lobby!” exclaimed Ballantyne. He rushed from the office.
“Too late,” declared Cranston.