"I thought that I would like to meet either you or Mr. Barr, so that in the future you could keep me posted on anything that might be of interest."
"Gladly!" exclaimed Childs. "Gladly, Mr. Arnaud. You see, our concern is—"
The girl opened the door of the private office.
Childs hesitated for a moment. Then he rose.
"I should like to have you meet Mr. Warfield," he said, turning to Arnaud. "He is an excellent promotion man with whom we have had some very successful dealings.
"Of course, you understand, Mr. Arnaud, that Mr. Warfield is — er — well, all his negotiations should be conducted through us. He has many plans, and whenever they are sound, we handle them."
"I see," replied Arnaud, nodding.
"Tell Mr. Warfield to come in," ordered Childs.
A thin man of medium height entered the office. His face was that of an adventurer — long, sallow, and marked by thin, deep lines. He bore a worried expression that seemed natural.
He had a short, black mustache and a prominent nose above it. His eyes were piercing, and they turned immediately toward the visitor.
The shrewdness of his glance was met by the shrewdness of Henry Arnaud's gaze. Childs made the introduction. Arnaud arose and shook hands.
Childs drew up a chair on the other side of the desk. Before Warfield could step toward it, Arnaud had crossed to the new chair and had quietly taken his seat there.
There was nothing surprising in his action. It simply left the original seat for Perry Warfield.
The sallow-faced man was starting toward the vacant chair when Childs proffered a cigar. Warfield lighted it while Childs went behind the desk.
Then, amid a momentary silence, Warfield stepped toward the empty chair, which was directly in front of the unused typewriter desk in the corner of the office.
Childs was busy at his desk for the instant. Warfield was puffing his cigar. Henry Arnaud was listening attentively although his expression did not indicate it. He was slightly forward in his chair; that was all.
As Perry Warfield sat down, there was a click from somewhere behind him. The sound was muffled; otherwise its sharpness would have attracted immediate attention. As it was, only Henry Arnaud detected it.
His expression did not change, but a slight gleam of satisfaction shone in his eyes as he relaxed in his chair.
Then his gaze turned toward the window, and he puffed his cigar thoughtfully. His mind seemed to be puzzling over something.
Childs began a brisk conversation. It was intended for the benefit of both Henry Arnaud and Perry Warfield. It dealt chiefly with investments.
Arnaud listened with feigned interest. Warfield nodded, but kept chewing the end of his cigar. The man was nervous, although he tried not to show it. At last, during a lull in the conversation, he spoke to Childs.
"Any new developments?" he asked.
"Nothing spectacular," replied Childs. "One or two matters I can speak to you about, but they can wait until later."
"Don't let me interrupt," began Henry Arnaud, starting to rise.
"Stay right where you are, sir," said Childs. "Why don't you come back later, Perry?" The last remark was to Warfield.
"Think I will," said the sallow-faced man. He became suddenly courteous as he arose and shook hands with Henry Arnaud. "I'll be moving along," he said to Childs. "There's just one point"
"I'll see you to the elevator," suggested Childs. "Stay right here, Mr. Arnaud. I'll only be a minute."
The two men went into the outer office and thence to the corridor. The door of the private office remained open behind them.
Henry Arnaud looked quickly into the outer office. The girl was facing the window. Moving with amazing stealth, Arnaud reached behind the bookcase and brought out the interior of the bomb. He moved to the typewriter desk.
There was no click as he probed the lock. The top of the desk moved noiselessly. The top of the bombshell was loose; it required but a few seconds for Arnaud to replace the charge beneath the detonator and to close the desk again.
Then he was back in his chair, puffing his cigar meditatively when Childs entered.
The two men talked investments for half an hour. Childs was in an excellent humor when his visitor left.
He felt sure that he would soon number Henry Arnaud among his clients.
The morning went by satisfactorily. Childs went out to lunch and returned. Several persons called to see him. Some were ushered into his private office while he was temporarily absent.
It was a busy day, which reached its climax when Childs received a long-distance call from his partner, at four o'clock. He had scarcely hung up the receiver when the girl entered, with a short, dark-faced man behind her. The visitor spoke before she had a chance to introduce him.
"Mr. Childs," he said, "I'm Detective Cardona, from headquarters. I want to make a search here — on a tip-off I received today."
"What — what's it all about?" stammered Childs.
"I'll tell you later," said Cardona briskly. "There's no time to lose, right now. I'd like to look in that closet.
No, wait a moment" — his eyes had noted the typewriter desk in the corner — "what's in there?"
"Nothing," replied Childs, in a puzzled tone. "It's an empty typewriter desk — that's all—"
Cardona was looking at the lock.
"Have you the key?" he asked.
Childs supplied it.
Cardona opened the desk cautiously. An exclamation came from his lips. He bent over the desk and made a quick inspection. Then he turned to Childs and shook his head.
"This is your lucky day!" he said. "By rights you should be dead — blown out through the side of the building with this whole office!"
He lifted the box from within the desk and exhibited the bomb which it contained.
"The detonator has struck," he said. "But it has failed to explode the charge! When it occurred, I do not know. Probably yesterday afternoon. This would have been the fifth explosion — but somehow it went wrong!"
With these words, the detective left the office. When two plainclothesmen entered from the corridor to complete their superior's investigation, they found Childs collapsed behind his desk, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes staring in horror!
CHAPTER VI. DOCTOR ZERNDORFF ACTS
"SO!" exclaimed Doctor Zerndorff.
He was standing in his laboratory, a white-walled room that adjoined the living quarters of his apartment.
Before him lay the separated portions of the bomb which had been brought from the office of Barr Childs. Beside him stood three men — Inspector Burke, Detective Cardona, and a secret-service investigator.
"You have found something?" questioned the inspector.
"Something?" returned Zerndorff. "Something, yes? It is everything that I wished! Now all is plain!"
He turned to his three companions and leaned one elbow upon the shelf beside him.
"It is but one man who could have made this bomb," he declared. "I could not have made myself believe that he was here, in this America. But now, I can tell it all!"
"Who is he?" questioned Cardona eagerly.
"His name is Isidor Vervick," replied Zerndorff.
"Where is he?"
"He is dead now!"
Cardona started in amazement. He could not understand the sudden knowledge displayed by Zerndorff.
The criminologist smiled and went on.
"You must know and understand these men," he said. "They do not change their actions, because they are men who hide. This man Vervick — I see him plain.
"He was a bright man, this way" — he tapped I forehead with his fingers — "and he was also a fool, this way." He tapped his forehead a second time.
There was a momentary silence, while Zerndorff picked up bits of mechanism and examined them again.