“I didn’t send him to you,” muttered Prokop.
“Aha!” said Mr. Carson, “extremely interesting. Your Mr. Thomas came to us”
“Where exactly?”
“To us. Factories in Balttin. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“A foreign concern. Marvellously up to date. An experimental laboratory for new explosives. We make keramit, methylnitrate, and such things. Chiefly military, you see? You’ll sell us Krakatit. Yes?”
“No. And is Thomas still with you?”
“Aha! Mr. Thomas; wait, that’s amusing. Now he comes to us and says: This is the legacy of my friend, Prokop, a chemist of genius; he died in my arms, and with his last breath, aha! he bequeathed it me. Aha! magnificent,—what?”
Prokop only smiled wryly. “And is Thomas still . . . in Balttin?”
“Wait a moment. Naturally, to begin with we kept him . . . as a spy. We get hundreds of them, you know. And we had this powder, Krakatit, tested.”
“And the result?”
Mr. Carson raised his hands to heaven. “Magnificent!”
“What’s the speed of detonation? How did you find Q? And t? The figures!”
Mr. Carson let his hands fall, so that they slapped on his knees and opened hig eyes very wide. “What figures, man! The first attempt . . . fifty per cent starch . . . and the crusher gauge was blown
