Nick’s face had grown stern. “Because some five or six hours ago,” he answered gravely, “you were forcibly drugged, and a murderous attack was made upon you.”
The blank look of amazement that came into Crawford’s eyes increased as memory returned to him. He sat up in bed and stared at the detective.
“Good heavens, I remember now!” he broke out. “I—I thought at first, though, that it was only a nightmare.” He raised his brown, muscular hand and passed it across his brow. “Yes,” he muttered slowly, “I remember—I saw Jim Stone—I saw the wet sponge—his terrible face!”
His voice died away into a frail whisper, whereupon Nick came up closer to the bed and laid a kindly hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Stone drugged you,” he explained; “but that was not the worst he tried to do. The drug was only administered so that you might be kept quiet during what was to follow. Look!”
With a quick movement he pulled back Crawford’s right sleeve, and then, extending his finger, indicated a small speck of hardened blood on the tanned forearm.
“That mark covers a puncture made by the hypodermic syringe,” the calm voice went on, “and it was charged with the bacilli of some deadly disease when it was first handed to Stone to operate with.”
The mine owner listened rigidly.
“Again?” he whispered hoarsely. “Jim has tried again?”