Delaney awoke from his stupor and lifted a rug which he tossed over the body of Cuthbert Morphy. He wiped his hands with a finite motion. He wheeled and slouched lankily across the polished floor. He returned with the lineman’s kit.
“Pliers,” said Drew, as the big operative removed the straps and reached his hand inside. “I saw a pair there when we had it open before,” the detective added, unscrewing the rubber cap of the receiver and lifting the thin metal diaphragm from the face of two tiny magnets which were wound with fine silk wire.
“Regulation magnets,” whispered Nichols, leaning over the detective’s shoulder. “They’re regulation except there’s a hole drilled down between them. There must be a barrel all the way through the receiver.”
“We’ll see. Got those pliers, Delaney?”
The operative passed up a pair. “Ah,” chuckled the detective, unscrewing the binding-posts and lifting off a hard rubber cap. “Ah, see here!”
Delaney rose and peered over the captain’s shoulder straps. The two men watched Drew’s nimble fingers trace out the mechanism of the electric pistol.
“It’s simple!” declared the detective. “It’s very simple and ingenious in construction. It’s a crowning wonder to me that some one hasn’t used this sort of device to carry out a wholesale slaughtering. Suppose they never thought of it.”
Drew glanced at the silent mound under the Persian rug. “The wrong road,” he whispered tersely. “He took the wrong road. He was a mechanical and electrical genius. He was a patent expert.”
Delaney worked his brows up and down. “Shall I call Miss Stockbridge?” he asked.
“I’ll do it,” Nichols said, turning and hurrying through the portières. He returned with Loris leaning upon his arm. Her eyes were glazed and tear-laden. She held a tiny, limp lace handkerchief between her trembling fingers.