approaching car at a person in another rapidly moving car, also.
But the motor bandit, whoever he is, provided against that. That
bullet is what is known as an anesthetic bullet."

"An anesthetic bullet?" repeated both Dr. Mead and myself. "What
is that?"

"A narcotic bullet," Garrick explained, "a sleep-producing bullet,
if you please, a sedative bullet that lulls its victim into almost
instant slumber. It was invented quite recently by a Pittsburgh
scientist. The anesthetic bullet provides the poor marksman with
all the advantages of the expert gunman of unerring aim."

I marvelled at the ingenuity of the man who could figure out how
to overcome the seeming impossibility of accurate shooting from a
car racing at high speed. Surely, he must be a desperate fellow.

While we were talking, the doctor's wife who had been attending
Warrington until a nurse arrived, came to inform him that the
effect of the sedative, which he had administered while Warrington
was restless and groaning, was wearing off. We waited a little
while, and then Dr. Mead himself informed us that we might see our
friend for a minute.

Even in his half-drowsy state of pain Warrington appeared to
recognise Garrick and assume that he had come in response to his
own summons. Garrick bent down, and I could just distinguish what
Warrington was trying to say to him.

"Wh--where's Violet?" he whispered huskily, "Does she know? Don't