“I had a talk with him this afternoon about it, and he was quite learned,” Godfrey went on.  “This is a great chance for him to get before the public, and he’s making the most of it.  I gathered from what he said that ordinary prussic acid, which is deadly enough, heaven knows, contains only two per cent. of the poison; while the strongest solution yet obtained contains only four per cent.  Freylinghuisen says that whoever concocted this particular poison has evidently discovered a new way of doing it—­or rediscovered an old way—­so that it is at least fifty per cent. effective.  In other words, if you can get a fraction of a drop of it in a man’s blood, you kill him by paralysis quicker than if you put a bullet through his heart.”

“Nothing can save a man, then?” I questioned.

“Nothing on earth.  Oh, I don’t say that if somebody had an axe handy and chopped your arm off at the shoulder an instant after you were struck on the hand, you mightn’t have a chance to live; but it would take mighty quick work, and even then, it would be nip and tuck.  Freylinghuisen thinks it is a new discovery.  I don’t.  I think some one has dug up one of the old Medici formulae.  Maybe it was placed in the secret drawer, so that there would never be any lack of ammunition for the mechanism.”

“Godfrey,” I said, “are you still bent on fooling with that thing?”

“More than ever; I’m going to find that secret drawer.  And if the fangs strike—­well, I’m ready for them.  See here what I had made today.”

He drew from his pocket something that looked like a steel gauntlet, such as one sees on suits of old armour.  He slipped it over his right hand.

“You see it covers the back of the hand completely,” he said, “half way down the first joint of the fingers.  It is made of the toughest steel and would turn a bullet.  And do you see how it is depressed in the middle, Lester?”

“Yes,” I said, “I was wondering why you had it made in that shape.”

“I want to get a sample of that poison.  My theory is that when the fangs strike the hand, the shock drives out a drop or two of the poison.  I don’t want those drops to get away; I want them to roll into this depression, and I shall very carefully bottle them.  Think what they are, Lester—­the poison of the Medici!”

I sat for a moment looking at him, half in amusement, half in sorrow.  It seemed a pity that his theory must come tumbling down, it was so picturesque, and he was so interested and enthusiastic over it.  And it would make such a good story!  He caught my glance, and put the gauntlet back into his pocket.

“Well, what is it?” he asked quietly.

For answer, I got out the cablegram and passed it across to him.  He read it with brows contracted.

“That seems to put a puncture in our little romance, doesn’t it?” I asked, at last.

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, it does,” and he read the message again, word by word.  “Armand’s man hasn’t called yet?”