He strode to one corner of the laboratory, where, for several minutes, he talked in earnest whispers with his three confederates. Patsy Garvan could only wait and watch them. That they would kill him without shrinking, in order to carry out their knavish designs, he had not a doubt. That was plainly manifested in their evil faces. So, too, was the seeming feasibility of the steps now advocated by Margate to thwart the threatening efforts of Nick Carter. That his project would serve their purpose, that they still had their infamous game well in hand, all finally seemed to agree. For Busby suddenly turned and hastened to one of the shelves, from which he selected a small vial and gave it to Margate, remarking grimly: “One injection of that will do the business.” “Leave us to do the rest, then,” returned Margate, then hastily resuming his disguise. “Look after this rat, Busby, and keep a constant eye on him. You had better drug him, also, to relieve you of further trouble. We can turn the trick in half an hour. One o’clock sharp, Dunbar, mind you, in the gloom under the porte-cochère.” “We’ll be there, Dave,” said Dunbar, with an assuring nod. “And back here in thirty minutes,” Margate added, about to go. “Leave me to prepare the way.” “Gee whiz, but he seems to feel dead sure of it!” thought Patsy, grimly watching him. “It’s dead lucky, too, that the chief has an anchor to the windward. Though one ruse appears to have failed, he may make good with the other.” CHAPTER VII. PETERSON GETS BUSY. It was after ten o’clock that evening when Margate returned to the Clayton residence. He entered with a key by the way of the side door. A glance at the windows while approaching the stately mansion told him that most of the household were abed. Margate hung his cap in the side hall and smoothed with his palms his neatly plastered hair, effectively hiding the scar caused by Chick Carter’s bullet many months before. He observed that a dim light was burning in the library. Upon stepping quietly into the main hall, moreover, he discovered the new butler. Peterson was nodding sleepily in a chair near the main stairway. He started slightly upon hearing the other, then quickly arose, rubbing his eyes and bowing respectfully. “You need not have waited for me, Peterson,” Margate said pleasantly, pausing and regarding him intently. “It’s the doors, sir,” said Peterson, explaining. “The doors?” “It has been my custom, Mr. Garside, sir, to be sure they are locked before going to bed. I do not mind waiting up, sir.” “I met a friend and remained longer than I intended,” said Margate, smiling. “I do not mind, sir,” repeated the butler. “That’s very good of you. Has Mr. Clayton retired?” “He has, Mr. Garside, sir.” “How long did the detective remain here, Peterson?” “About half an hour, sir, as I remember.” “Did he bring any good news?” “I cannot say, sir.”