thing science! We shall come to an understanding, eh? Honestly, you shall have everything back. So.”
Prokop was silent, overpowered by this avalanche of words, while Mr. Carson waved his arms and circulated about the laboratory inordinately delighted. “I’ve preserved everything, everything,” he said exuberantly. “Every fragment from the floor. Sorted out, stored away, ticketed, sealed. Aha! I could have gone off with everything, eh? But I’m honourable, my dear sir. I shall return everything. We must come to an understanding. You trust. Carson. A Dane by birth, formerly a lecturer in Copenhagen. And I’ve also studied theology. What does Schiller say? Dem Einen ist sie—ist sie—I’ve forgotten, but it’s something to do with science; amusing, eh? But don’t thank me. Later. So.”
Prokop had had no idea of thanking him, but Mr. Carson glowed like a self-righteous benefactor. “In your place,” he said enthusiastically, “in your place I should get”
“Where is Thomas now?” Prokop interrupted him.
Mr. Carson gave him a searching look. “Well.” he said through his teeth after consideration, “we know about him. Oh, yes,” he said quickly, “you should provide yourself . . . provide yourself with the largest laboratory in the world. The very best instruments. The World’s Institute of Destructive Chemistry. You are right, a university chair is a stupidity. They only repeat old facts, eh? A waste of time. Institute a laboratory in the American style. An enormous laboratory, a brigade of assist-
