The professor sniffed at the vial, which contained nothing but pure
water, and in surprise turned to the emissary for an explanation. But it
was too late. The emissary dealt him a blow with a blunt instrument that
stunned him and, as he reeled back and grasped at a table, the other
thugs rushed from the hall and rained blow after blow on his venerable
head and beat him to the floor. A convulsive shudder--a long-drawn-out
sigh--and he lay still.
With barely a glance at him the emissaries set to work to smash all the
paraphernalia of the place, sparing nothing in order to make sure that
the antidote would be destroyed. Glass tubes, retorts, bottles, even
furniture were smashed to bits in their orgy of ruin--and there, in the
midst of the debris, his life's work finished, lay the old chemist,
dead.
Tiring of their own efforts, the murderers at last desisted. One of them
went to the street door and peered out, but in a moment was back with
the others.
"Quick--that fellow Locke is coming."
He was right. Locke had immediately quit Brent Rock and had come
directly to the chemist's in the hope of forestalling any further
attempt by Flint to inveigle Eva into dealing with him.
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