The call was greeted by the additional, and no more reassuring appearance of three deputies, all of uniform and unbelievable proportions. One of them carried a gun of distant, but nonetheless dangerous, vintage.
"Which one we after, Mort?" one of them asked in a voice that sounded as though it was being dragged through a gravel pit.
The sheriff pointed to Marc. "That tall, murderous buzzard," he drawled.
Dr. Herrigg, seeing his deliverance at hand, glanced eagerly toward the desk, the button on its corner. Marc, realizing that he had lost his advantage, started forward.
"There's your murderer!" he cried, pointing a trembling finger at the doctor, and praying that the sheriff would believe him. He still had his gun, and intended using it if Herrigg made a move. The doctor seemed to sense this and remained tentatively where he was.
"I don't know what he's talking about," he said suavely. "This man is obviously suffering from a mental disorder."
"Don't believe him!" Marc yelled. "Ask him about his laboratory."
The sheriff looked baffled. He rubbed his free hand slowly over the back of his neck. It seemed an hour before the act had been completed, and he said, "Grab 'em both boys. Hold 'em quiet 'til we find out what this is all about."
The "boys" did as they were told with a little more efficiency, it seemed, than was absolutely necessary.
"And now," the sheriff said unhurriedly, "I might's well tell you two, if either of you make a move, we'll just have to fix you for good."