“No”—­decisively.  “We don’t want to kill; we want to keep him.  Bullets won’t do.  I see no reason, however, why you shouldn’t load that thing with cartridges containing chemicals which would have an effect similar to that of a gas bomb.  Once you can make him helpless, so that you can put those steel bracelets on him, we’ll see how dangerous he is with his hands behind him!”

“I get you”—­thoughtfully.  “I know a chemist who will make up ‘Paralysis’ gas for me, in the form of gelatine capsules.  Shoot ’em at the Rhamda; burst upon striking.  Safe enough for me, and yet put him out of business long enough to fit him with the jewellery.”

“That’s the idea.”

But I had other notions about handling the Rhamda.  Being satisfied that mere strength and agility were valueless against him, I concluded that he, likewise realising this, would be on the lookout for any possible trap.

Consequently, if I hoped to keep the man, and force him to tell us what we wanted to know, then I must make use of something other than physical means.  Moreover, I gave him credit for an exceptional amount of insight.  Call it super-instinct, or what you will, the fellow’s intellect was transcendental.

Once having decided that it must be a battle of wits I took a step which may seem, at first, a little peculiar.

I called upon a certain lady to whom I shall give the name of Clarke, since that is not the correct one.  I took her fully and frankly into my confidence.  It is the only way, when dealing with a practitioner.  And since, like most of my fellow citizens, she had heard something of the come and go, elusive habits of our men, together with the Holcomb affair, it was easy for her to understand just what I wanted.

“I see,” she mused.  “You wish to be surrounded by an influence that will not so much protect you, as vitalise and strengthen you whenever you come in contact with Avec.  It will be a simple matter.  How far do you wish to go?” And thus it was arranged, the plan calling for the co-operation of some twenty of her colleagues.

My fellow engineers may sneer, if they like.  I know the usual notion:  that the “power of mind over matter” is all in the brain of the patient.  That the efforts of the practitioner are merely inductive, and so on.

But I think that the most sceptical will agree that I did quite right in seeking whatever support I could get before crossing swords with a man as keen as Avec.

Nevertheless, before an opportunity arrived to make use of the intellectual machinery which my money had started into operation, something occurred which almost threw the whole thing out of gear.

It was the evening after I had returned from Miss Clarke’s office.  Both Charlotte and I had a premonition, after supper, that things were going to happen.  We all went into the parlour, sat down, and waited.

Presently we started the gramophone.  Jerome sat nearest the instrument, where he could without rising, lean over and change the records.  And all three of us recall that the selection being played at the moment was “I Am Climbing Mountains,” a sentimental little melody sung by a popular tenor.  Certainly the piece was far from being melancholy, mysterious, or otherwise likely to attract the occult.