"Let's get home," exclaimed Trenmore abruptly. "I feel my reason is slipping. And let's walk, for it's not far and 'tis agreeable to be loose in a sane world again. At least," Terry corrected himself after a moment's sober reflection, "a comparatively sane world. Yes, let's be moving, friends, for I'm thinking we need a good meal and a night's sleep to save our own sanity!"
CHAPTER 21: THE LAST OF THE GRAY DUST
AT ten-thirty, five tired and hungry people ascended the steps of No. 17 Walnut Street and rang the bell. It was not immediately answered. Then Drayton noticed that the door was not latched. They all entered and became aware that in the library on the right something unusual was going on. A gurgling, choking noise was punctuated by several thumps, followed by the crash of furniture violently overthrown.
Trenmore was first at the door. He flung it open and rushed inside. The room seemed empty. As the noises continued, however, Trenmore passed around the big reading table and stooping over plucked his man, Martin, from the prostrate body of an unknown antagonist. He did it with the air of one who separates his bull pup from the mangled corpse of the neighbor's Pomeranian. With a sad, disgusted face Terry glanced from the pugnacious one to the figure on the floor.
"Ah now, boy," he demanded, "are you not ashamed to be choking a man old enough to be your own grand-dad?" Then he dropped Martin, with an exclamation. "Sure, 'tis my old friend the little collector man!"
"Mr. Trenmore," began Martin in excited self-defense, "he come in here and he-"
"Never mind what he did till I count what's left of the pieces, my boy. I take back what I said, though. Be he alive or dead, the old rascal's got no more than was coming to him."
Kneeling down, while the rest gathered in an interested group, he put his hand to the man's heart. He was an elderly, smooth-shaven, gray-haired person, with sharp, clean-cut features. The forehead was high and sloping, the mouth thin and tight-pressed even in unconsciousness. He was well dressed, and a gold pince-nez lay on the floor near by, miraculously unbroken.
"He's all right," announced Trenmore. "Martin, a drop of liquor now and we'll have the old scoundrel up and able for an explanation."
His prophecy proved correct. Five minutes later the gray-haired collector sat in an armchair, shaken but able to talk and be talked to.
"And now," said Trenmore, "I'll ask you, Martin, to tell your share in this, and then you'll go out and you'll get everything in the house that is eatable and you'll set it out in the dining room, for it's starved to death we are, every one of us."
"Yes, Mr. Trenmore, I'll tend to it. This old man broke in on me about half an hour ago. He asked for you, Sir. I told him you'd been out since this morning-"
"This morning!" The exclamation broke from three pairs of lips simultaneously. Martin stared.
"Never mind," said Terry hastily. "And then?"
"He wanted to know where you were. I said I didn't know, as you didn't say anything to me. And then we got talking and-I'm sorry, sir-but I let out that it seemed mighty queer, your going that way. And then he asked me questions about where I'd last seen you and all that. I told him about finding this gray stuff-it's wrapped up in that newspaper on the table, sir-and not knowing what it was or whether you wanted it kept or thrown out.
"And then-honest, I don't know how he did it, but he got me to show it to him. I brought it in here. And then he said I'd never see you again, and would I sell him the stuff. I said no, of course. Then he pulled a gun on me-here it is-and I jumped on him-and then you came in. I didn't want to hurt the old guy, but he got me wild and-"
"That's all right, Martin. You did very well, but don't ever be doing any of it again. Now hurry up that supper. What's coming next would likely strain your poor brain. Get along with you."
Reluctantly, Martin vanished kitchenward. The rest of the company pulled up chairs and made themselves comfortable. For a time they found the captive of Martin's prowess inclined to an attitude of silent defiance. Upon Terry's threat, however, to turn him over to the police on charges of housebreaking, he expressed a willingness to listen to reason. Bertram's presence had a very chastening effect. He knew the burglar for one of the men he had hired to steal the Cerberus, and realized that should his former accomplice go on the stand, his testimony, together with the attack on Martin, would mean penitentiary stripes for himself.
"By the way," Drayton broke in, picking up the newspaper package which contained the Dust of Purgatory and weighing it in his hand, "did you ever ask Bertram, Terry, if he knew what had become of the vial this was in?"
The burglar started and flushed. "Say, I done a mean trick then. I didn't mean to keep the thing, but you left it laying on your bureau that day at the Belleclaire, Mr. Trenmore, and I-well, I took it along. I give it to Skidoo here for a keepsake. I didn't have anything else pretty to give her. But she's a straight girl and I shouldn't've done it. Skidoo, have you got that bottle I give you for bath salts?"
"Sure." No. 23000 promptly produced it from her sweater pocket. "Why, Bert, wasn't it yours?"
Bertram admitted that it was not. With a reproachful glance for Bertram, she extended the Cerberus vial to Trenmore. Trenmore reached for it and took it in his hand. In the flash of an eye the space before him was empty. Miss Skidoo had vanished more abruptly than he had himself disappeared, upon his first experience with the dust!
With a startled yell, Terence leaped to his feet and flung the Cerberus across the room. His feelings were shared by all present, save the old collector, who put up a thin, protesting hand.
"Now, don't-I beg of you, don't become excited! Mr. Trenmore, my nerves are not in shape to stand this sort of thing. There is no harm done-unless the beautiful little curio is broken, which would be a pity. Tell me, did that violently costumed young lady come here from-well, from the place you have been in since this morning?"
"She did that!"
"Then she has simply returned there," announced the collector and he settled placidly back in his chair.
But Bertram, who had been stricken temporarily dumb and paralyzed by the abrupt vanishment of his beloved "kid," gave vent to one anguished cry of grief and rage. Springing upon Drayton, he wrenched from him the newspaper packet.
"What the deuce are you doing?" exclaimed the lawyer.
"You lemme alone!" panted the burglar, backing away. "I want a dose of this dust, that's what. I'm goin' after Skidoo, I am!"
"You are not!"
Trenmore pounced on him and recovered the dangerous package. "You poor little maniac," he said. "Do you think that I rang the Red Bell in that temple for nothing? Don't you realize that the place where we were isn't anywhere now, wherever it was before?"
A moment the burglar stood cogitating this puzzling statement, his face the picture of woe. Then he sank slowly into a chair and dropped his head in his hands.
"The brightest kid!" he muttered despairingly. "The best kid and now she's nothing! Hell-beg pardon, lady, but this's fierce! I don't care what happens now!"
They all sincerely pitied him. As, however, there is no known remedy for the loss of a sweetheart who has melted into the circumambient atmosphere, and as he repulsed their sympathy with almost savage impatience, they once more turned their attention to the gray-haired collector.
Trenmore began by asking his name.
The old fellow fumbled in his pockets a moment. "I find I have left my card case," he said, "but I am Phineas Dodd Scarboro. By profession I am an oculist. I am willing to tell you the history and nature of that dust. In order that I may do so intelligently, however, I must ask that you first relate your own experience with it."