launched into a detailed recital of his harrowing experience.
Although Detective Strange was a man difficult to surprise, he made no effort to conceal his astonishment when Peret brought his story to an end.
"You say Dr. Sprague and this other man were seized by the Thing when your back was turned?" he questioned.
"Oui; as I was leaping over the fence." nodded Peret, "I heard Dr. Sprague scream just as I landed on the ground. When I turned to see what was the matter, both he and the other man appeared to be struggling with some invisible antagonist. Before I could reach them, both men fell to the ground. Sprague was apparently dead before he fell. The other man, after a struggle, threw off the Thing—whatever it was or is."
"Didn't you see anything at all?" demanded Strange.
"Absolutely nothing."
"Hear anything?"
"No, But that man"—jerking his thumb at the pedestrian—"said he heard the Thing whisper."
"I also heard the Thing whisper," interposed the druggist, a small, bald-headed individual with a cataract over one of his eyes. Still in a state of nervous apprehension, he had edged up close to the two detectives as if seeking their protection. "I was talking to Dr. Sprague when he was attacked," he continued, darting furtive glances over his shoulder from time to time. "An instant before he screamed I heard a—a whispering sound."
Peret's eyes shone with interest.
"It's strange that I did not hear this sound," he muttered, half to himself. "Just what, exactly do you mean by a whispering sound, Monsieur?"
"I scarcely know." replied the druggist, after a moment's thought. "It was a whisper—nothing that I could understand. Just an inarticulate whisper. I had hardly heard it when Sprague screamed and began to struggle."
"Whence did the whisper emanate, Monsieur?" queried Peret eagerly.
"I do not know."
"You saw nothing?"
"Nothing."
"'S damn funny," growled Strange, scratching his ear. "An 'invisible monster' that whispers is a new one on me," He looked at the Frenchman perplexedly. "Queer business, Peret."
"It is," agreed Peret; then whirled around to confront the pedestrian. "Ah, Monsieur, perhaps you can help us a little, eh? How are you feeling now?"
"Considerably better," returned the other in a hoarse voice, and then added, "But I don't believe I'll ever recover from the shock. What, in God's name was it, anyway?"
He was a tall, heavy-set man with glittering black eyes, a close-cropped mustache and, though his features were irregular, had rather a handsome countenance. Although deathly pale and still a little shaken, he seemed to have himself pretty well in hand.
Strange looked at him shrewdly.
"What's your name?" he asked, taking out his notebook.
"Albert Deweese," replied the man. "I am an artist and have a studio in the next block. I was on my way home when I heard the crash of breaking glass as Mr. Berjet jumped through the window-sash. Naturally, I ran back to find out what the trouble was."
Strange made a note and nodded.
"What attacked you?" he suddenly shot out.
"I don't know," replied Deweese. "The Thing, whatever it was. was invisible. I felt it. God knows, but did not see it."
"But you must have some idea of what the Thing was," Strange insisted. "Was it a man, or an animal, or—?"
