“What’s it about?” asked the detective curiously.
“I don’t know,” replied the physician frankly. “I expect a visitor. Who he is — what he is — I do not know. His purpose may be important. Come at once. The door is unlocked. Move upstairs cautiously, and keep out of sight in the hall.
“I am in the room where Marchand died. If my visitor is here, you will overhear the conversation. If he has not yet arrived, you will see him come in later. I expect him within an hour.”
“Right!”
Lukens hung up the receiver and began to pace the room. Then he seated himself in the chair at the desk and feigned deep thought. He kept his back to the door; he was anxious to learn if he could detect the stranger’s approach.
He picked up the dice and held them on the palm of his right hand. He shook them thoughtfully, then closed his fist over them and gripped the cubes tightly.
The impression that some one was entering the room suddenly dominated the physician’s mind. He fought against it momentarily; then turned quickly in his chair.
With a mad effort he scrambled to his feet. Before him, halfway across the room, stood a man who held a curious revolver. The muzzle was muffled by a silencer. The gun was directed toward the desk.
A cry escaped the physician’s lips. It was a cry of recognition — of sudden understanding. It was the man as much as the gun that alarmed him.
In the fraction of a second the physician realized the situation. Before he could act, he saw a finger press the trigger. With a sighing gasp, Doctor George Lukens collapsed upon the floor!