forth both for us and to keep himself together. "Wh--what's the
matter? What happened?" I gasped, gripping the back of the cushion
to steady myself. "Am I wounded? Where was I hit? I--I don't feel
anything--but, oh, my head and throat!"

I glanced over at Dillon. He was pale and white as a ghost, but I
could see that he was breathing, though with difficulty. In the
glare of the headlight of a car which Garrick had turned on him,
he looked ghastly. I looked again to discover traces of blood. But
there was none anywhere.

"We were all put out of business," muttered Garrick, as he worked
over Dillon. Dillon opened his eyes blankly at last, then
struggled up to his feet. "You got it worst, commissioner,"
remarked Garrick to him. "You were closest."

"Got what?" he sputtered, "Was closest to what?"

We were all still choking over the peculiar odor in the fetid air
about us.

"The bulletless gun," replied Garrick.

Dillon looked at him a moment incredulously, in spite even of his
trying physical condition.

"It is a German invention," Garrick went on to explain, clearing
his throat, "and shoots, instead of bullets, a stupefying gas
which temporarily blinds and chokes its victims. The fellow who
was in here didn't shoot bullets at us. He evidently didn't care