"Is Mr. St. George in his apartments?" asked the scientist of the elevator boy.
"No, sir," said the boy. "He's in hospital, shot."
"Is there a key to his place? Quick."
"I think so, sir, but I can't give it to you."
"Here, give it to me, then!" exclaimed the detective. He flashed a badge in the boy's eyes, and the youth immediately lost a deal of his coolness.
"Gee, a detective! Yes, sir."
"How many rooms has Mr. St. George?" asked the scientist.
"Three and a bath," the boy responded.
Two minutes later the three men stood in the reception-room of the apartments. There came to them from somewhere inside a deadly, stifling odor of chloroform. After one glance around The Thinking Machine rushed into the next room, the studio.
"Dear me, dear me!" he exclaimed.