. He was on the point
of lifting down a box to make a more thorough examination when he heard
a quavering voice beneath him.

"What you do here--eh?"

Under the step-ladder was one of the workers who had slipped noiselessly
round the corner of the pile and now stood, grotesque and menacing, his
uncovered eyes glowering at the intruder, the black barrel of his
Browning pistol covering the detective's heart.

"Don't shoot, colonel," said Beale softly. "I'll come down."

CHAPTER XXV

THE LAST MAN AT THE BENCH

After all, it was for the best--van Heerden could almost see the hand of
Providence in this deliverance of his enemy into his power. There must
be a settlement with Beale, that play-acting drunkard, who had so
deceived him at first.

Dr. van Heerden could admire the ingenuity of his enemy and could kill
him. He was a man whose mental poise permitted the paradox of detached
attachments. At first he had regarded Stanford Beale as a smart police
officer, the sort of man whom Pinkerton and Burns turn out by the score.
Shrewd, assertive, indefatigable, such men piece together the scattered
mosaics of humdrum crimes, and by their mechanical patience produce for
the satisfaction of courts sufficient of the piece to reveal the design.
They figure in divorce suits, in financial swindles and occasionally in
more serious cases.

Van Heerden knew instinctively their limitations and had too hastily
placed Beale in a lower category than he deserved. Van Heerden came to
his workroom by way of the buffet which he had established for the use
of his employees. As he shut the steel door behind him he saw Milsom
standing at the rough wooden sideboard which served as bar and table for
the workers.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," said Milsom, and then quickly, as he
read the other's face: "Anything wrong?"

"If the fact that the cleverest policeman in America or England is at
present on the premises can be so described, then everything is wrong,"
said van Heerden, and helped himself to a drink.

"Here--in the laboratory?" demanded Milsom, fear in his eyes. "What do
you mean?"

"I'll tell you," said the other, and gave the story as he had heard it
from Hilda Glaum.

"He's in the old passage, eh?" said Milsom, thoughtfully, "well there's
no reason why he should get out--alive."

"He won't," said the other.

"Was he followed--you saw nobody outside?"

"We have nothing to fear on that score. He's working on hi