“Really I am sure that even the shock of such a wound wasn’t enough to make an experienced driver like Warrington lose control of the machine.  It is a fairly wide curve, after all, and—­well, my contention is proved by the fact that I examined the wreck of the car this morning and found that he had had time to shut off the gas and cut out the engine.  He had time to think of and do that before he lost absolute control of the car.”

Dr. Mead had been standing by the cabinet as he talked.  Now he opened it and took from it the bullet which he had probed out of the wound.  He looked at it a minute himself, then handed it to Garrick.  I bent over also and examined it as it lay in Guy’s hand.

At first I thought it was an ordinary bullet.  But the more I examined it the more I was convinced that there was something peculiar about it.  In the nose, which was steel-jacketed, were several little round depressions, just the least fraction of an inch in depth.

“It is no wonder Warrington was put out, even by that superficial wound,” remarked Garrick at last.  “His assailant’s aim may have been bad, as it must necessarily have been from one rapidly approaching car at a person in another rapidly moving car, also.  But the motor bandit, whoever he is, provided against that.  That bullet is what is known as an anesthetic bullet.”

“An anesthetic bullet?” repeated both Dr. Mead and myself.  “What is that?”

“A narcotic bullet,” Garrick explained, “a sleep-producing bullet, if you please, a sedative bullet that lulls its victim into almost instant slumber.  It was invented quite recently by a Pittsburgh scientist.  The anesthetic bullet provides the poor marksman with all the advantages of the expert gunman of unerring aim.”

I marvelled at the ingenuity of the man who could figure out how to overcome the seeming impossibility of accurate shooting from a car racing at high speed.  Surely, he must be a desperate fellow.

While we were talking, the doctor’s wife who had been attending Warrington until a nurse arrived, came to inform him that the effect of the sedative, which he had administered while Warrington was restless and groaning, was wearing off.  We waited a little while, and then Dr. Mead himself informed us that we might see our friend for a minute.

Even in his half-drowsy state of pain Warrington appeared to recognise Garrick and assume that he had come in response to his own summons.  Garrick bent down, and I could just distinguish what Warrington was trying to say to him.

“Wh—­where’s Violet?” he whispered huskily, “Does she know?  Don’t let her get—­frightened—­I’ll be—­all right.”

Garrick laid his hand on Warrington’s unbandaged shoulder, but said nothing.

“The—­the letter,” he murmured ramblingly.  “I have it—­in my apartment—­in the little safe.  I was going to Tuxedo—­to see Violet—­explain slander—­tell her closing place—­didn’t know it was mine before.  Good thing to close it—­Forbes is a heavy loser.  She doesn’t know that.”