With his flash lamp and magnifying glass, he went slowly and minutely over the whole length of Chick’s arm. The skin was perfectly smooth, without a prick or abrasion of any kind on it from shoulder to wrist.
“Just what I hoped. The needles never went through. If the point of one of them had touched his flesh, he would be dead before this. A more powerful poison I never came across, judging by its effects on Brand Jamieson and poor Andrew Anderton.”
“Hello, chief! What’s the matter?” interposed a feeble voice.
“What, Chick? Are you all right again?” asked Nick, smiling, as Chick raised his head. “I was just going to[Pg 18] ask you what was the matter? Ah, I see! You’ve been rapped on the head.”
“Oh, yes,” was the response, as Chick sat up on the settee and let his feet fall to the floor. “I remember now. I was following the professor—a few yards behind him, so that he shouldn’t see me. Then I had a feeling as if a crowbar had come down on top of my head, and that was all I knew.”
“It was a sandbag,” declared Nick. “There is a little mark on your head, made by that metal initial you had put in the crown of your hat. The sandbag came down on top of your derby, crushed it in, and caused the brass letter to cut your scalp just a little. There is no mark on your hat, however. It was merely slammed in by something bulky and yielding, and the inference is that it was a sandbag.”
“’Oly ’eavens!” mumbled Ruggins, who had been listening. “’Ow easy it seems when you know.”
“I guess you’re right,” agreed Chick, speaking to Nick. “But it was so sudden and unexpected that I did not get a chance to see who did it, or how.”
“It wasn’t the professor?”
“No. He was some distance in front, and I don’t think he knew I was following him. He did not turn his head. He walked along as if he wasn’t thinking of anything except to get to where he was going. I believe he had a taxi. I saw one waiting about two blocks from the house.”