Drew heard the table creaking as Stockbridge’s muscles stiffened—as the Magnate’s hands clutched the edge of the polished surface.
“Who?” he repeated on the alert for possible clews.
“Who! I don’t know! But they will—he will!”
“Easy,” said Drew. “Take it easy, sir. This is a modern age. We are in the heart of civilization. Nobody is going to get you! I’ll see to that!”
“You can’t see! This man knows everything. He said that I would be dead within twelve hours. That I would be in my grave in seventy-two hours. He mentioned the grave at Green—Ridgewood Cemetery. He gave secret details of my life which few alone know. Early follies of mine. An actress. A deal in War Babies and an electrical stock which was hushed up. I was the silent partner in that. How should this man know all of these things about me?”
“Just what did he say?”
“I’ve told you! He said enough! He threatened to kill me despite all the precautions I would take. He said I was marked for a death which all the police in the world couldn’t solve. That I would be killed in spite of every effort to save me. What is it—poison? Have I already been given poison?”
Drew reached across the table and clutched the magnate’s left wrist. He pulled out a flat watch and timed the pulse. “Normal, almost,” he said softly. “You’re normal, despite the shock. Your temperature is fair. I don’t think it was a toxin he meant. That deadens a man and brings slow coma.”
“Well, what did he mean?” The magnate had found his voice and his old-time nerve. “What would you do in my case?” he said cunningly.
Drew glanced at the telephone. He raised his brows and swung, full-staring, upon Stockbridge. His finger pointed between the money-king’s eyes. It was as steady as an automatic revolver.