Now that the danger was past for me, and he felt all right, his
active mind began at once on the reconstruction of what had
happened.
What was it--man or devil? Could a human fly have scaled the
walls, or an aeroplane have dropped an intruder at the window
ledge? The lock on the door did not seem to have been tampered
with. Nor was there any way by which entrance could have been
gained from a fire escape. It was not illuminating gas. Every one
agreed on that. No, it was not an accident. It was an attempt at
murder. Some one was getting close to us. Every other weapon
failing, this was desperation.
I had been made comfortable, and he was engaged in one of his
characteristic searches, with more than ordinary eagerness,
because this was his own apartment, and it was I who had been the
victim.
I followed him languidly as he went over everything, the
furniture, the walls, the windows, the carpets--there looking for
finger-prints, there for some trace of the poisonous gas that had
filled the room. But he did not have the air of one who was
finding anything. I was too tired to reason. This was but another
of the baffling mysteries that confronted us.
A low exclamation caused me to open my eyes and try to discover
what was the cause.
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