She clung to him for an instant in a way that made his own heart beat faster; made him conscious of the beauty, loyalty, and intelligence of this girl.
“I heard that Doctor Vaughton had been killed in an auto accident. I was frightened — desperately frightened — for you—”
“If it had been an accident, I might have been killed. But it wasn’t an accident, Betty. It was deliberate.”
He helped her gently to her own side of the seat. Her eyes were wide with horror.
“You mean some one tried to murder you?”
“Yes. What I suspected is true, Betty. There are human fiends behind this epidemic. The people of Branford don’t know it — but they are fighting more than germs.”
“But why did that mob want to burn the institute? I saw them rushing at it with flaming torches before I fainted. They were like wild beasts!”
“They were infuriated because they had heard that Dr. Vaughton was treating the rich and neglecting the poor. They thought he was at the institute and were trying to force him to come out. They didn’t harm the institute though. They were frightened off at the last minute.”
He did not tell her that it was his own clever ruse that had saved the day. Agent “X” never boasted. Betty Dale laid a hand on his.
“Tell me what it all means,” she pleaded. “I can’t understand. How could any human beings, no matter how low, do such a thing as — spread disease?”
“It’s an extortion scheme, Betty. The cleverest and the worst I’ve ever heard of.”
“Extortion! You mean— But what good does it do to infect people with sleeping sickness?”
“The criminals who have the apes apparently have a curative serum as well. They can charge for curing their victims. Only the rich of Branford were deliberately inoculated. The others who caught sleeping sickness were infected by mosquitoes. That is something the criminals hadn’t counted on. But they seem callous to it.”
“I thought encephalitis was incurable!”
The Agent’s eyes blazed with intensity as he answered.
“In the light of modern science it is, Betty. That is the horror of it. Medicine is powerless to aid the victims of the criminals. But whoever is behind this has a curative serum. They are charging thousands to effect cures — and Branford’s rich are meeting their demands.”
“But where does the serum come from?”
“No one knows, Betty — but a man named Hornaday, one of Drexel’s most brilliant workers, has disappeared along with all his notes and papers. It is barely possible that this man is the fiend behind it all — or—”
Agent “X” became silent. He had outlined the crime to Betty, given her insight into the horror that lay like a black pall over the city of Branford, but he was not yet ready to put forward any theories.
She sat forward, clenching her small hands. Her eyes were bright as steel. Her breath came quickly.
“It’s the most ghastly thing I ever heard of! Hundreds of people condemned to a living death so that some fiend or fiends can grow rich. I understand now just why you’re here. Can’t I help you? Can’t I do something?”
Betty Dale’s hand gripped his. Her eyes held tense appeal. But the Agent shook his head.
“There’s nothing you can do now, Betty. If I need you I’ll call. Just keep silent about everything I’ve told you — and keep your eyes and ears open.”
“I’ve wealthy cousins in Branford, too,” she said suddenly. “My aunt’s sister’s people, the Channings. Paula Channing puts on airs. I never liked her very well. But still she’s my cousin. Do you think they ought to be warned? I was going there tonight.”
THE Agent thought gravely for a moment. “I think not,” he said finally. “If they have been marked by the criminals, warning them won’t do any good. And they might spread rumors that would be bad all around. I’m following a lead, Betty. In a few hours or days I hope to—”
The Agent did not reveal to Betty Dale the angle along which he hoped to strike at the hideous extortionists. He left her at her aunt’s with the promise that he would call on her if she could be of any help.
Then he directed the taxi driver to take him to the Garwick mansion. He sat back tensely smoking a cigarette as the cab lurched forward. After the battle at the institute, the citizens of Branford had returned to their homes like frightened rabbits to their burrows. The streets were abnormally deserted, empty even of patrolling police, who had been called to attempt to quell the riot, and had not yet returned to their regular beats. Horror had won out tonight. The spirit of horror appeared to be in complete control of the city.
The taxi lurched into a drive, slid up to the white-columned yellow brick front of the stately Garwick residence. Agent “X” leaped out. Another car was standing before the house, a car bearing the green crosses of a doctor.
A pale-faced servant opened the door. Fear showed in the man’s eyes. His skin was drawn with it.
He ushered the Secret Agent into the presence of three tense-faced people — Mr. and Mrs. Garwick and Dr. Roeber. The woman’s hand gripped the physician’s arm. Agent “X” caught low pleading words.
“Is there nothing that can be done, doctor — nothing at all?”
The servant announced “X,” and Mrs. Garwick turned to him. Her eyes held no glimmering of recognition. “X” was a different man than the one who had come to her on the night of the ape’s attack. His hatchet face, gray hair, and alert eyes were impressive.
“I am Doctor Preston of the State Sanitation Department,” he said, “investigating personally for the governor. They tell me your son was attacked.”
Mrs. Garwick bowed her head miserably.
“Attacked, yes! And now he has contracted the disease. He is already unable to talk — he—”
Her husband stepped forward to lay a protective hand on her arm. Doctor Roeber stood by dejectedly, with an air of helplessness.
“You will allow me to see the patient?” questioned Agent “X.”
Garwick nodded, with the pathetic eagerness of a despairing man who clutches at any straw of hope.
“Yes! You go with him, Doctor Roeber. Tell him about the case.”
Following the family physician, “X” ascended a staircase to the sick room. One of the servants was there, acting as nurse. Her face was almost as pale as the starched white dress she wore.
“X” felt a wave of horror sweep over him as he stared into David Garwick’s face. The boy’s features were set in the first stage of encephalitis — the dread Parkinsonian Mask. It was as though Death had already claimed him and was drawing him relentlessly into that terrible deep pit of sleep from which there is no awakening. Breathing heavily, the boy stared at the ceiling with eyes vacant of all human expression.
FOR seconds Secret Agent “X” gazed at him, pity and revolt warring in his heart. Then he drew Roeber into the hall, and fixed him with burning eyes. Fierce hatred of the criminals behind this thing made his lips white. But he kept his voice steady.
“It seems to be a severe case, doctor.”
Roeber nodded somberly.
“It is. The boy’s heart isn’t good. He has always been more or less an invalid. I have done all I can.”
Roeber started down the hall toward the stairs. But Agent “X” stepped back into the room and bent over David Garwick. A gleam came into his eyes as he noted the boy’s color, his labored respiration, and shallow, flickering pulse. If he knew anything about the disease, David Garwick was rapidly approaching a crisis.
When he returned to the living room, Mrs. Garwick confronted him eagerly.
“What are these rumors that the Vorse child has been cured?” she demanded. She looked swiftly from Agent “X” to Roeber and back to “X” again. Roeber spoke flatly.