"I would like to see Doctor Brooks," he said. And when the physician appeared: "About that man who was murdered at the hotel, Doctor--" "Who died," the doctor corrected; "we found no evidence of murder." "Who was murdered," the operative insisted. "Have you his clothing where I can examine it?" "Sure," agreed the physician. He led Delamater to another room and brought out a box of the dead man's effects. "But if it's murder you expect to prove you'll find no help in this." The Secret Service man nodded. "I'll look them over, just the same," he said. "Thanks." Alone in the room, he went over the clothing piece by piece. Again he examined each garment, each pocket, the lining, as he had done before when first he took the case. Metal, he thought, he must find metal. But only when a heavy shoe was in his hands did the anxious frown relax from about his eyes. "Of course," he whispered, half aloud. "What a fool I was! I should have thought of that." The soles of the shoes were sewed, but, beside the stitches were metal specks, where cobbler's nails were driven. And in the sole of one shoe were three tiny holes. "Melted!" he said exultantly. "Crazy, am I, Chief? This man was standing on a wet floor; he made a perfect ground. And he got a jolt that melted these nails when it flashed out of him." He wrapped the clothing carefully and replaced it in the box. And he fingered the metal pellets in his pocket as he slipped quietly from the room. * * * * * He did not stop to talk with Doctor Brooks; he wanted to think, to ponder upon the incredible proof of the theory he had hardly dared believe. The Eye of Allah--the maniac--was real; and his power for evil! There was work to be done, and the point of beginning was not plain. How far did the invisible arm reach? How far could the Eye of Allah see? Where was the generator--the origin of this wireless power; along what channel did it flow? A ray of lightless light--an unseen ethereal vibration.... Delamater could only guess at the answers. The current to kill a man or to flash a spark into silken powder bags need not be heavy, he knew. Five hundred--a thousand volts--if the mysterious conductor carried it without resistance and without loss. People had been killed by house-lighting currents--a mere 110 volts--when conditions were right. There would be no peculiar or unusual demand upon the power company to point him toward the hidden maniac. He tossed restlessly throughout the night, and morning brought no answer to his repeated questions. But it brought a hurry call from his Chief. "Right away," was the instruction; "don't lose a minute. Come to the office." He found the big man at his desk. He was quiet, unhurried, but the operative knew at a glance the tense repression that was being exercised--the iron control of nerves that demanded action and found incompetence and helplessness instead.