“Is Thomas still in Balttin?” asked Prokop, exerting all his strength so as to appear indifferent.
Something flashed behind Mr. Carson’s spectacles. “We’ve got our eye on him,” he said evasively. “He certainly won’t come back here. Come to us . . . you may find him, if—you—want him so very badly,” he said slowly and emphatically.
“Where is he?” repeated Prokop obstinately, making it quite clear that he would talk of nothing else.
Mr. Carson waved his hand airily. “Well, he’s made off,” and he gave Prokop an inscrutable glance.
“Made off?”
“Faded away. He wasn’t supervised carefully enough, and he was an artful bird. He undertook to prepare Krakatit for us. Experimented with it . . . about six weeks. Cost us a frightful amount of money. Then disappeared, the rotter. Didn’t know what to do,—what? Knows nothing.”
“And where is he?”
Mr. Carson bent over Prokop. “A rotter. Now he is offering Krakatit to some other state. And at the same time he stole our methylnitrate, the swine. Now he is playing the same trick on them.”
“Where?”
“Mustn’t say. Honestly, I mustn’t. And when he bolted I went, aha! to visit your grave. Piety—what? Chemist of genius, unknown to anyone here. That was a job if you like. Had to keep on advertising in papers like an idiot. Naturally the others got on to it, see? You understand me?”
“No.”
“Come and have a look,” said Mr. Carson
