“Is the conference ended?” questioned the newcomer, in his quiet tone. “I see that our friend Dyke is not here.”
“This is most amazing, Cranston,” wheezed Whilton. “Towson and I have been chatting; we had no idea how late it was getting. We held no conference. Dyke did not arrive.”
“I cannot understand it,” added Towson. “Dyke’s man, Parsons, called a while ago. He asked if Dyke had arrived. Apparently, Dyke intended to keep the appointment.
“Shelburne” — Towson turned to the baldheaded secretary — “suppose you call Dyke’s home again. Find out if he has returned.”
“Shall I call the private phone, sir?” questioned Shelburne. “I can talk to Parsons if I do—”
“Call Dyke’s personal number first. He will be in his laboratory if he has arrived.”
“Very well, sir.”
Lamont Cranston took a seat at the long table. His keen eyes flashed. They were watching Shelburne, as the committee secretary used the telephone upon the radio cabinet.
Whilton and Towson were engaged in quiet conversation. They did not notice that Shelburne obtained the number on this attempt. Only Cranston saw the change that came over the secretary as he began to stammer words to a speaker at the other end.
“One — one minute,” gasped Shelburne. He laid the telephone on the radio cabinet and approached the table. “Mr. Towson. Mr. Towson, sir—”
“What is it?” Towson swung in his chair. “Did you get Loring Dyke on the wire?”
“No — no, sir,” stuttered Shelburne. “Something — something has happened there. You had better talk, sir — the police are at Mr. Dyke’s!”
Towson issued a sharp exclamation. He arose and went to the telephone. Herbert Whilton, his peculiar smile half gone from his lips, stared and listened. Lamont Cranston was seated, silent in the chair.
“Yes…” Towson’s tone was precise. “I wanted to speak with Mr. Dyke… I am Bryce Towson… Yes, the consulting engineer… Yes, Parsons called me to learn if Dyke had come here. I’m calling now to learn if he is there…
“What’s that?” Towson stopped abruptly. “Murdered! Loring Dyke! I can’t believe it… In his laboratory? Strangled? This is terrible… Yes, he was to have been here tonight… Yes, I have been waiting ever since dinner… Dyke was a friend of Meldon Fallow… Yes… Yes… I knew both of them… Very well… Surely, I shall be glad to see you.”
Towson hung up. He turned toward the table. His face was frozen with consternation. The others had learned the news from the talk over the telephone. Towson, however, had more details for them.
“LORING DYKE has been murdered,” stated the engineer, as he sat down and gripped the arms of his chair. “The circumstances of his death are identical with those of Meldon Fallow. He has been strangled — horribly disfigured — terribly beaten — by some vicious killer.”
“Dreadful!” gasped Herbert Whilton. “Dreadful. This passes belief!”
“How did the police find out about it?” inquired Lamont Cranston, steadily.
“Evidently through Parsons,” returned Towson. “The servant must have called them after he found out that Dyke was not here. This is a grave situation, gentlemen. Very grave, Whilton, as it applies to you and me.”
The old philanthropist nodded.
“Fallow’s death,” resumed Towson, in a sober tone, “was a blow. Yet it did not indicate any positive connection with the affairs of this committee. Now, apparently, the same killer who slew Fallow has murdered Dyke. The connection is certain.”
“It is,” agreed Whilton. “It would seem that some dangerous enemy is threatening our enterprise. Who can it be, Towson? Do you suspect” — the philanthropist paused seriously — “could you suspect Frederick Thorne?”
Cranston’s eyes were on Shelburne. The sneaky secretary had paused in his catlike tread, midway between table and filing cabinet. Cranston could see that Shelburne’s whole attention was centered on whatever Towson might reply. Relief came over Shelburne’s face as the engineer spoke.
“That would be preposterous,” decided Towson. “Frederick Thorne offered Meldon Fallow millions for his invention. Thorne is a financier of high repute. He would never associate himself with such evil business.”
“Thorpe is a power magnate,” reminded Whilton. “Fallow refused to sell him the invention.”
“But Dyke did not. If Fallow told Thorne the details of our control of the invention, Thorne’s natural action would be to deal with us.”
“I think you are right, Towson. Perhaps it was a mistake for me to refer to Thorne.”
“Not at all, Whilton. It is a logical connection, despite its improbability. Thorne is the one man who could profit immensely by gaining control of Fallow’s supermotor.”
Whilton nodded in agreement. Towson looked toward Cranston, as though hoping for some new suggestion. Between them, Towson and Whilton had argued both pro and con; the opinion of a third person seemed a logical solution.
“Any one,” decided Cranston, “might profit immensely from control of Fallow’s motor. Its possibilities are apparent. Beginning with a reasonable amount of capital, the owner of that device could begin a revolutionary epoch.
“He could dominate the power industry. He could introduce a new era in transportation. With the machinery and formulas which you two men, as survivors of the committee, possess, a shrewd seeker of wealth could acquire a fabulous fortune.
“Therefore, gentlemen, any man who knows of the invention must be considered as a potential grasper. Thorne is the only one who has stated his desire to acquire it. That makes his position debatable.
“You can regard him as an enemy, because he wants something that he does not have. You must also regard him as a friend, because he has made a fair and open offer.”
Cranston’s eyes were toward Shelburne. He could see that the secretary’s nervousness had returned.
Each varied trend of Cranston’s discourse had brought a rise and fall to Shelburne’s hopes.
“Well spoken, Cranston.” The commendation came from Bryce Towson. “You have stated the precise situation. It leave us, however — Whilton and myself— in a difficult place. Without the formality of a regular committee meeting, we must decide at once upon our course.”
TOWSON paused impressively to look at Whilton. It was to the philanthropist that the engineer addressed his next remarks.
“Fallow was here several hours before he was murdered,” stated Towson. “Dyke should have been here this evening. A detective — a man named Cardona— is coming to see me. I must talk to him.
“I have two courses. First: to tell him about Fallow’s invention, despite the fact that it is a sworn secret; to mention Frederick Thorne as a would-be purchaser. Second: to tell him that Fallow and Dyke were both friends of mine; that they were scarcely more than acquaintances of each other; and that they were but a few of many scientific men who visit me here.
“In brief, Whilton, I can tell the entire truth; or I can tell the partial truth. Inasmuch as the matter concerns both of us — as survivors of the committee — I must rest my action upon your decision.”
Whilton pondered. Towson had raised a very important question. It was fully two minutes before the old philanthropist gave his slow reply.
“We owe a duty,” he crackled, “to Meldon Fallow. He wanted his invention to be preserved a secret for the present. We also owe a duty to Loring Dyke; he made no suggestion of mentioning the invention after Fallow died. My decision, Towson, is that you should follow the second course that you mentioned.
“Tell simple truths without jeopardizing our secret. My friend Cranston, here” — Whilton’s smile was steady as the old man stared across the table— “will certainly say nothing of these facts that he has gained in confidence.”