Without warning, Dain stiffened.
The white indicator on the little box flared into life.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"So," he murmured softly, "our visitor has reached the garden gate."
He folded his arms upon the desk and allowed his head to sink forward.
To anyone entering the room, Valmon Dain appeared to have succumbed to sheer exhaustion. He looked like a man who had fallen asleep over his work after too many sleepless nights.
Only one eye remained half open beneath its lowered lid.
It never left the glowing white disc.
Outside, another pair of eyes was watching just as intently.
A face rose slowly above the workshop window.
Willard Lyall.
He revealed himself inch by inch, pausing after every movement until his whole face was visible behind the glass.
For a brief instant disappointment clouded his features.
He had hoped to find the laboratory empty.
Instead, Dain was still there.
Then the disappointment faded.
His gaze travelled across the room.
The chemicals.
The books.
The scattered papers.
The lonely figure asleep at the desk.
The revolver lying carelessly within arm's reach.
A slow smile crept across his lips.
Fortune had handed him everything he could have wished for.
He examined every corner of the laboratory with a practised eye, searching instinctively for danger.
Finding none, he withdrew from the window.
Silence descended once more.
A deep, oppressive silence that seemed almost to possess weight.
Inside the workshop nothing moved.
Dain remained motionless, his head resting on folded arms.
Only the single watchful eye continued its silent vigil over the tiny white signal lamp.
The workshop had only one proper entrance.
No door opened directly into the garden.
Anyone wishing to enter had only two choices, climb awkwardly through the high window or pass through the door leading from the main house.
Dain had wagered that Lyall would choose the door.
He had never seen the face at the window.
He knew only that someone had entered through the garden.
Then it came.
The faintest complaint of an ageing floorboard.
Almost too soft to hear.
The white disc flashed brilliantly.
At the same instant the hidden mechanism inside the opposite wall awoke with its low electrical hum.
Someone had touched the door.
For one dangerous moment Dain felt a flicker of concern.
The hum.
It was louder than he had anticipated.
Quiet.
But perhaps not quiet enough.
Without altering the appearance of sleep, his right hand drifted lazily across the desk and touched a small brass switch fixed beneath its edge.
High against the far wall, an electric ventilating fan began turning.
Its gentle whisper blended perfectly with the hidden mechanism until one sound became indistinguishable from the other.
Satisfied, Dain allowed his hand to fall back.
Once again he looked every inch the exhausted scientist.
The workshop door opened.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly.
There was no scrape of hinges.
No click of the lock.
Only a widening strip of darkness.
Then Willard Lyall slipped through.
He paused inside the doorway.
Every instinct demanded that he study the sleeping figure before taking another step.
Satisfied at last, he eased the door shut behind him.
He moved forward without haste.
Each foot was placed carefully upon the thick rug.
Each breath was measured.
Halfway across the room, Dain shifted slightly in his chair.
Lyall froze.
His body became as rigid as carved stone.
His eyes remained fixed upon Dain's bowed head.
For several endless seconds neither man moved.
Then Dain muttered something unintelligible, like a man wandering through troubled dreams, and settled once more into complete stillness.
Lyall allowed himself the faintest breath of relief.
He resumed his advance.
Foot by foot he closed the remaining distance.
Now the revolver lay within reach.
His hand extended slowly.
There was no tremor.
No hesitation.
The white fingers might have belonged to a marble statue.
They closed gently around the grip.
Almost affectionately.
The revolver lifted silently from the desk.
Still Dain did not stir.
He seemed utterly oblivious to the danger standing over him.
Lyall's eyes swept the room again.
One shot.
That was all it would take.
The report would certainly be heard.
His escape must therefore be immediate.
The window appeared the obvious route.
He crossed to it and examined the fastening.
Nothing complicated.
An ordinary catch.
He released it and raised the sash a few inches.
Enough to allow him to fling it fully open and disappear into the garden within seconds.
By the time any servant reached the workshop, he would be gone.
Then another detail caught his attention.
A pair of thick rubber gloves lay abandoned upon the bench.
He smiled.
Fingerprints.
Those troublesome little witnesses.
The gloves solved that problem perfectly.
He slipped them on with quiet satisfaction.
Outside, somewhere across the sleeping suburb, a church clock began striking midnight.
One solemn stroke.
Then another.
And another.
Twelve deep bronze notes rolled through the darkness.
Each seemed to count down the final moments of Valmon Dain's life.
As the last echo faded, Lyall turned back towards the desk.
He no longer troubled to hide the sound of his footsteps.
There was no longer any need for stealth.
The revolver was already levelled at Dain's chest.
His voice, cold and perfectly controlled, cut through the silence.
"Valmon Dain," he said quietly.
"Wake up."