The phone rang. He answered it.
"Mr. Keane? This is Doctor Grays. The autopsy on Wilson has been begun, and already a queer thing has been disclosed. It's about his heart."
"Yes," said Keane, gripping the phone.
"His heart is ruptured in a hundred places—as though a little bomb had exploded in it! Don't ask me why, because I can't even give a theory. It's unique in medical history."
"I won't ask you why," Keane said slowly. "I think—in a little while—I'll tell you why."
He hung up and strode toward the door. But at the roulette table he paused and stared at the wheel with his gray eyes icily blazing.
It seemed to him the wheel had moved a little!
He had unconsciously lined up the weirdly clinging ball with the knob on the outer door, as he examined it awhile ago. Now, as he stood in the same place, the ball was not quite in that line. As if the wheel had rotated a fraction of an inch!
"Yes, I think that's it," he whispered, with his face a little paler than usual.
And a little later the words changed in his brain to: "I know that's it. A fiend's genius.... This is the most dangerous thing Doctor Satan has yet mastered!"