demanded that he should hand it over to him. It cost Prokop a good deal of trouble to get away.
This taught him not to search for Thomas among people who had any sort of commercial connection with him.
At the next corner he stopped; what now? There remained only Carson. An unknown quantity who knew something and wanted something. Good. Carson then. Prokop found in his pocket the letter which he had forgotten to post and ran off to a letter-box.
But once there his hand dropped. Carson, Carson—yes, but he . . . what he wants is hardly a trifle. Devil take it, that fellow knew something about Krakatit and had got something up his sleeve—God knows what. Why was he looking for him? Evidently Thomas didn’t know everything, or he didn’t want to sell everything, or he laid down impossible conditions, and he, Prokop, like an ass, had to sell himself more cheaply. It must be something like that; but (and here Prokop for the first time grew terrified at the extent to which he was involved) what could he do with Krakatit when he got it? To begin with he must know very well what the substance is for, how it is handled, etc. Krakatit, my friend, is not snuff or a sleeping-powder for children. And in the second place, in the second place it was . . . too strong a tobacco for this world. Just imagine what could be done with it . . . let us say in a war. Prokop began to get frightened of the whole business. What devil was bringing that cursed Carson here? On all accounts he must stop, cost what it may
