Bill was studying him. "We can't do that," he replied, "even if we wanted to. Herr Nebel is our country's guest. But this I will do. Give me your word that you will make no further attempt on Herr Nebel's life for twenty-four hours, tell us why you have done this thing, and I'll let you go. I'll give you one hour's start, and then I'll tell the police the whole story. Is it a bargain?" Dampier bowed his head. "You have my word, Monsieur. I will tell you everything. But when you have heard what I will say, perhaps you will not wish to call your police. Shall we go to my laboratory? We can talk more freely there." Bill's grip tightened. "Wait! This garden was guarded. Have you killed those men? Because if you have all bets are off!" The little Frenchman smiled. "But no, Monsieur. I have no quarrel with your countrymen. There are other missiles for this little toy of mine--hollow needles filled with a certain rare drug like the 'mercy bullets' of your American sportsmen. They will sleep soundly for some hours yet, and have what you call the big hangover when they awaken but that is all. Shall we go now? It is late, and I have much to tell you." The whole idea looked screwy to me. Even now I'm not sure that it wasn't. But when Bill Porter makes up his mind, it would take Gabriel's trumpet to change it. He was quite capable of plumping one of Dampier's little needles into me and going off with the Frenchman alone. "I'll get the car," I said. "Let's get out of here before someone stumbles over a corpse and yells for the cops." We were somewhere in the middle of Maryland before Bill let me slow down. He must have had a talk with Dampier while I was getting the car, for the little Frenchman never peeped until we swung into a narrow dirt road somewhere north of Frederick. He called the next turn, and the next, until I began to suspect that he was running us around in circles. At last we pulled up before a deserted farm-house, set back from the road behind a dilapidated picket fence. Bill nudged me. Silhouetted against the stars were the towers of a high-tension line. Dampier was either stealing or buying power in a big way. Now a French gentleman's word is supposed to be about as good as Finland's credit, but we were taking no chances. I remembered that wicked little dart with its razor-edged barbs, and I felt pretty sure that Bill hadn't forgotten it either. We lined up, one on each side of him, and marched across the weed-grown lawn to the rickety side porch. There was a Yale lock on the door, and as Dampier swung it open I saw that it was backed with steel armor-plate. Outside the house might look like the poorer section of Bilded Road, but inside it was built like a fortress. Six-inch concrete walls, steel doors, indirect lighting and ventilation--it looked as though Monsieur Pierre Dampier had been expecting to stand a pretty heavy siege.