“By this,” retorted their host. He held aloft a small glass vial, lead-seated, and staggered weakly to the door.
“Stop him!” said Average Jones sharply.
The door closed on the words. There was a heavy fall without, followed by the light tinkle of glass.
Average Jones, who had half crossed the room in a leap, turned to his friends, warning them back.
“Too late. We can’t go out yet. Wait for the fumes to dissipate.”
They stood, the four men, rigid. Presently Average Jones, opening a rear window, leaped to the ground, followed by the others, and came around the corner of the porch. The dead man lay with peaceful face. Professor Gehren uncovered.
“God forgive him,” he said. “Who shall say that he was not right?”
“Not I,” said the young assistant secretary in awed tones. “I’m glad he escaped. But what am I to do? Here we are with a dead body on our hands, and a state secret to be kept from the prying police.”
Average Jones stood thinking for a moment, then he entered the room and called up the coroner’s office on the telephone.
“Listen, you men,” he said to his companions. Then, to the official who answered: “There’s a suicide at 428 Oliver Avenue, the Bronx. Four of us witnessed it. We had come to keep an appointment with the man in connection with a discovery he claimed in metallurgy, and found him dying. Yes; we will wait here. Good-by.”