Some fifteen minutes later the short, squat officer said gloomily: “It was a bum steer. Thanks for pulling that critter off me, and Casey’s much obliged for the drinks. But we’re hunting a bunch of counterfeiters that have been turning out damn good phony bills. The line led straight to you. You could have shot us. You didn’t. So we got to do the work all over.”

“I’m afraid,” admitted Pete, “the trail would lead right back. Perhaps, as government officials, you can do something about the fourth-dimensional demonstrator. That’s the guilty party. I’ll show you.”

He led the way to the laboratory. Arthur appeared, looking vengeful. The two officers looked apprehensive.

“Better give him a cigarette,” said Pete. “He eats them. Then he’ll be your friend for life.”

“Hell, no!” said the short, squat man. “You keep between him and me! Maybe Casey’ll want to get friendly.”

“No cigarettes,” said Casey apprehensively. “Would a cigar do?”

“Rather heavy, for so early in the morning,” considered Pete, “but you might try.”

Arthur soared. He landed within two feet of Casey. Casey thrust a cigar at him. Arthur sniffed at it and accepted it. He put one end in his mouth and bit off the tip.

“There!” said Pete cheerfully. “He likes it. Come on!”

They moved on to the laboratory. They entered—and tumult engulfed them. The demonstrator was running and Thomas—pale and despairing—supervised its action. The demonstrator was turning out currency by what was, approximately, wheelbarrow loads. As each load materialized from the fourth dimension, Thomas gathered it up and handed it to Daisy, who in theory was standing in line to receive it in equitable division. But Daisy was having a furious quarrel among herself, because some one or other of her had tried to cheat.

“These,” said Pete calmly, “are my fiancée.”

But the short, squat man saw loads of greenbacks appearing from nowhere. He drew out a short, squat revolver.