“Yes, but nothing was stolen from him. He tells me he took a bromide to try to sleep, for the shock of the girl’s death in the afternoon had about made him go to pieces. He was just dozing off when he thought he heard something in the room. He couldn’t be sure and before he could make a move a towel was clapped over his face; the next thing he knew he woke up mighty sick. He would have thought the whole thing was a nightmare, only there was the towel saturated with chloroform in a corner of the room, the bottle itself on a stand beside his bed and the windows open wider than he had left them. The rest of the household, including Sir Philip Devereux and his valet, Harry Blake, weren’t even disturbed. There’s no sign of how the burglar got in, except that the side door opening from the card-room was found unbolted this morning, though Ching Lee swears he fastened it as usual last night, and the telephone wires outside the house were cut, just as Parsons’ were.”
“Well, if Orbit has recovered and nothing was taken there’s been small harm done there, either,” McCarty commented, adding: “Is Sir Philip going to stay on at Orbit’s?”
“He sails Saturday. I should think he’d find Orbit’s kind of hospitality a little strenuous, although he seems to be a fine old sport!—Mac, what are we to do? I’m about at the end of my rope, and though the happenings last night don’t mean actual tragedy they show how little the scoundrels back of these crimes are afraid of being found out!”
In the clear morning light the inspector’s face seemed to have aged years and McCarty’s heart smote him.
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” he said. “If just papers that were useful to no one but himself were taken from Parsons and nothing at all from Orbit maybe some one just pulled off those two stunts to throw you off the track of the two murders and the kid’s disappearance.—Have you heard from Martin?”
“He’s back and Blaisdell the artist came with him. Blaisdell’s at Goddard’s now, offering whatever help he can give, but he hasn’t seen Horace since the boy came to his studio to bid him good-by; I talked to him and I’d swear he’s on the level. It’s the most infernal mystery—!”
“Has the autopsy been performed yet on that girl Lucette?” McCarty’s tones had lowered.
“Just an hour ago. Mac, it’s got the whole medical bureau going! The examiner agrees with Dr. Allonby, but he can’t go any further! The kind of gas that was used is a new one on them, deadlier than any sort the war produced and they’ve sent to Washington to find out if anything is known of it there.—Thanks.” Inspector Druet accepted the cigar which the other proffered and after it was alight he added: “Fluorine gas is one of its component parts—”
“Fluorine!” McCarty paused, with the match halfway to his own cigar.
“Yes, but there are other properties with it; fluorine burns, you know, but there was no trace of that on the girl’s face, although her lungs were seared. How it was ever forced on her is beyond me, and the Chief is raging like a caged bear!” He shook his head dejectedly. “If we don’t show results mighty soon I’m due for a transfer and that means the beginning of the end; but I don’t feel that so keenly as I do my sense of failure! I had a chance for quick action when that valet was poisoned, but now that little boy and the fine young French girl—God, it seems as though I had been criminally negligent!”