“And what about Drummond?” said Freyder, eyeing him professionally. “I don’t think he’s likely to give us any trouble for the present, but it’s just as well to be on the safe side.”
Mr. Robinson turned the unconscious man over with his foot.
“Have him carried upstairs,” he ordered, “and put in one of the bedrooms. And tell off someone to look after him.” He paused by the door as a thought struck him. “And by the way—let me know the instant he recovers consciousness. I’d hate to postpone my first interview with the gentleman for one instant longer than necessary.”
“Well, if I’m any judge of such matters, Chief, you’ll have to postpone it till tomorrow.”
“Then it will be a refreshing interlude in my period of tuition.”
And with a cheerful wave of his hand Mr. Robinson made his way up the stairs. It was six hours since Professor Goodman had started, and by now the clinker in the metal retort should be quite cold enough to handle. Just at first the obstinate old fool had given a little trouble; in fact, he had even gone so far as to categorically refuse to carry out the experiment. But not for long—two minutes to be exact. At the end of that period a whimpering and badly hurt old man had started mixing the necessary ingredients under the watchful eye of Mr. Robinson himself. And not till they were mixed and the retort placed in the electric furnace did he leave the room.
Twice during the two hours that followed did he come back again, unexpectedly. But the old scientist’s feeble resistance was broken and the visits were unnecessary. Bent almost double he sat in his chair, with the white light from the glowing furnace falling on his face. And he was still in the same position when Mr. Robinson opened the door and went in.
The heat in the room was stifling, though the furnace had now been out for two or three hours, and he left the door open. Then without a glance at the huddled figure he strode over to the table, his eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement. For there was the retort, and after cautiously testing it with his hand to discover the temperature, he picked it up and examined it curiously.
Though he had heard the experiment described in detail by Sir Raymond Blantyre, it was the first time he had actually seen it done. The retort, still warm, was full of an opaque, shaly substance which he realised was the clinker. And inside that, like the stone inside a cherry, was the diamond. For a moment his hands shook uncontrollably; then with feverish excitement he started to chip the clinker away with a small chisel.
It broke up easily, coming off in great flakes. And as he got down deeper and deeper his excitement increased. Amongst his other accomplishments Mr. Robinson was no bad judge of diamonds in the rough; in fact, if pushed to it, he could even cut and polish a stone for himself. Not, of course, with the wonderful accuracy of the expert, but sufficient to alter the appearance of any well-known historical diamond should it come into his possession. And in the past, it may be mentioned that many had. But in this case he had no intention of bothering over such trifles. Once satisfied that the diamond was there, and that Professor Goodman had forgotten nothing, he proposed to waste no time over that particular stone. Certainly he would put it aside for future use—but what was one paltry diamond to him? It was the process he wanted—and the certainty that he could carry out that process himself.
Deeper and deeper went the chisel, and gradually a dreadful suspicion began to grip him. Surely by now he ought to have struck the stone itself? More than half of the clinker had come away, and still there was no sign of it. Could it be possible that the accursed old fool had made a mistake?
Feverishly he went on chipping, and at length the suspicion became a certainty. There was no diamond in the retort; nothing but valueless grey powder. The experiment had failed.
For a moment or two Mr. Robinson stood motionless, staring at the now empty retort. This was the one thing for which he had not legislated. That owing to the unusual conditions, and the strain to which Professor Goodman had been subjected, the stones might prove indifferent, he had been prepared for. But not total failure. His eyes rested thoughtfully on the huddled figure in the chair, but in them there was no trace of mercy. He cared not one whit for the obvious exhaustion of the weary old man; his sole thought was blind, overmastering rage at this further hitch in his scheme. Especially now that time had again become a dominant factor.
“This seems an unfortunate little effort on your part, my dear brother,” he remarked softly.
Professor Goodman sat up with a start.
“I beg your pardon,” he mumbled. “I’m afraid I was asleep.”
“Then you would be well advised to wake up.” He crossed and stood in front of the Professor. “Are you aware that your experiment has failed, and that there is no diamond in that retort?”
The old man sat up blinking.
“It is not my fault,” he said querulously. “How can I be expected to carry out a delicate process under such conditions, and after the abominable way I have been treated?”
“May I point out,” pursued Mr. Robinson, still in the same soft tone, “that you assured me yourself that the conditions were in every way favourable? Further that you told me yourself, as you put the retort into the furnace, that everything was all right. Since then you have had to do nothing save regulate the heat of the electric furnace.” He paused, and a new note crept into his voice. “Can it be, my dear brother, that you were lying to me?”
“It may be that the heat
