CHAPTER XVII
Prokop looked at Mr. Carson in amazement. He was surprised to find that his face was no longer an insipid one, glowing with kindliness; it had grown serious and severe, the eyes of this zealous man had disappeared behind his heavy lids and only for an instant now and then did they flash out sharply. “Don’t be foolish,” he said emphatically. “Sell us Krakatit and the thing is done.”
“But how do you know . . .?” said Prokop hoarsely.
“I’ll tell you everything, honestly everything. Mr. Thomas came to us; he brought four ounces and the formula. Unfortunately he was not able to tell us the process. Neither he nor our chemists have so far been able to discover it, to discover how to make the stuff. Some sort of a trick, eh?”
“Yes.”
“H’m. Maybe we may come upon it without your assistance.”
“You won’t.”
“Mr. Thomas . . . knows something about it, but keeps it a secret. He worked for us behind locked doors. He’s a terribly bad chemist, but more artful than you are. At least he doesn’t blurt out what he knows. Why did you tell him? All he knows is to cadge money out of people. You should have come yourself.”
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