I thought Elaine Dodge would faint at the shock of his words coming so soon after the terrible occurrence outside.  She looked at him, speechless.

It happened that Kennedy had some artificial flowers on a stand, which he had been using long before in the study of synthetic coloring materials.  Before Elaine could recover her tongue, he seized them and stuck them into a tall beaker, like a vase.  Then he deliberately walked to the window and placed the beaker on the ledge in a most prominent position.

Elaine and Bennett, to say nothing of myself, gazed at him, awe-struck.

“Is—­is there no other way but to surrender?” she asked.

Kennedy mournfully shook his head.

“I’m afraid not,” he answered slowly.  “There’s no telling how far a fellow who has this marvellous power might go.  I think I’d better leave to save you.  He may not content himself with innocent outsiders always.”

Nothing that any of us could say, not even the pleadings of Elaine herself could move him.  The thought that at eleven o’clock a third innocent passerby might lie stricken on the street seemed to move him powerfully.

When, at eleven, nothing happened as it had at the other two hours, he was even more confirmed in his purpose.  Entreaties had no effect, and late in the morning, he succeeded in convincing us all that his purpose was irrevocable.

As we stood at the door, mournfully bidding our visitors farewell until the morrow, when he had decided to sail, I could see that he was eager to be alone.  He had been looking now and then at the peculiar instrument which he had been studying earlier in the day and I could see on his face a sort of subtle intentness.

“I’m so sorry—­Craig,” murmured Elaine, choking back her emotion, and finding it impossible to go on.

“So am I, Elaine,” he answered, tensely.  “But—­perhaps—­when this trouble blows over—­”

He paused, unable to speak, turned, and shook his head.  Then with a forced gaiety he bade Elaine and Perry Bennett adieu, saying that perhaps a trip might do him good.

They had scarcely gone out and Kennedy closed the door carefully, when he turned and went directly to the instrument which I had seen him observing so interestedly.

Plainly, I could see that it was registering something.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, non-plussed.

“Just a moment, Walter,” he replied evasively, as if not quite sure of himself.

He walked fairly close to the window this time, keeping well out of the direct line of it, however, and there stood gazing out into the street.

A glint, as if of the sun shining on a pair of opera glasses could be seen from a window across the way.

“We are being watched,” he said slowly, turning and looking at me fixedly, “but I don’t dare investigate lest it cost the lives of more unfortunates.”

He stood for a moment in deep thought.  Then he pulled out a suitcase and began silently to pack it.