uthbert Morphy. He wiped his hands with a finite motion. He
wheeled and slouched lankily across the polished floor. He returned
with the lineman's kit.

"Pliers," said Drew, as the big operative removed the straps and
reached his hand inside. "I saw a pair there when we had it open
before," the detective added, unscrewing the rubber cap of the receiver
and lifting the thin metal diaphragm from the face of two tiny magnets
which were wound with fine silk wire.

"Regulation magnets," whispered Nichols, leaning over the detective's
shoulder. "They're regulation except there's a hole drilled down
between them. There must be a barrel all the way through the receiver."

"We'll see. Got those pliers, Delaney?"

The operative passed up a pair. "Ah," chuckled the detective,
unscrewing the binding-posts and lifting off a hard rubber cap. "Ah,
see here!"

Delaney rose and peered over the captain's shoulder straps. The two men
watched Drew's nimble fingers trace out the mechanism of the electric
pistol.

"It's simple!" declared the detective. "It's very simple and ingenious
in construction. It's a crowning wonder to me that some one hasn't used
this sort of device to carry out a wholesale slaughtering. Suppose they
never thought of it."

Drew glanced at the silent mound under the Persian rug. "The wrong
road," he whispered tersely. "He took the wrong road. He was a
mechanical and electrical genius. He was a patent expert."

Delaney worked his brows up and down. "Shall I call Miss Stockbridge?"
he asked.

"I'll do it," Nichols said, turning and hurrying through the portieres.
He returned with Loris leaning upon his arm. Her eyes were glazed and
tear-laden. She held a tiny, limp lace handkerchief between her
trembling fingers.

"There's no danger," said Drew. "Come here, Miss Stockbridge," he
added. "I want to show you what was all ready for you."

The detective raised the hard-rubber receiver. "Here we have the
diaphragm," he said, pointing. "It's a round plate of soft iron. It's
secured to the rubber by an insulated ring. It is the part you press up
to your ear when you listen at a telephone. There's a small hole
punched in this one. The same sized hole extends down through the
center core, or magnet. This hole isn't rifled. It couldn't well be
rifled save with special machinery. That's why the bullet found in Mr.
Stockbridge's brain was without longitudinal scorings. It was fired
from a smooth-bored pistol."

"Tha