“by itself,” interrupted Prokop, scarcely breathing.
“Yes. Was it the same with you?”
Prokop nodded gloomily.
“There you are,” said Carson quickly. “And not without a reason. Terribly dangerous stuff. Sell it to us and you won’t have to worry any more. What would you have done with it?”
“And what would you have done with it?” said Prokop through his teeth.
“We’ve . . . made arrangements about that. What does it matter blowing up a few fellows—but it would be a pity if you were to suffer.”
“But the Krakatit in the porcelain box didn’t explode,” said Prokop, still obstinately reflecting.
“Thank God, no. I should think not!”
“And it was at night,” Prokop reflected further.
“At ten thirty-five, precisely.”
“And . . . those few grains of Krakatit were lying on a zinc . . . on a metal plate,” Prokop went on.
“It was nothing to do with that,” burst out the little man with a worried expression, and he bit his lips and started pacing up and down the laboratory. “It was . . . perhaps only oxidization,” he said after a moment. “Some sort of chemical process. It didn’t explode when mixed with glycerine.”
“Because it isn’t a conductor,” jerked out Prokop. “Because it doesn’t ionize—I don’t know.”
Mr. Carson stopped and stood over him with his hands behind his back. “You’re very astute,” he said appreciatively. ‘You deserve to get a lot of money. It’s a pity you’re stuck here.”
