“May I point out that you assured me that the furnace was if anything better than your own? Further, you have a thermometer there by which to regulate the heat. So once again, dear brother, can it be that you were lying to me?” With a snarl he gripped the Professor by the arm, and shook him roughly. “Speak, you miserable old fool—speak. And if you don’t speak the truth, I’ll torture you till you pray for death.”
He let go suddenly, and the Professor collapsed in his chair, only to stand up again and face the other bravely.
“A man can only die once,” he said simply. “And men have been tortured in vain for other things besides religion. To me my science is my religion. I knew you would find no diamond in the retort—and you never will. You may torture me to death, you vile scoundrel—but never, never, never will I tell you my secret.”
Gently, almost caressingly Mr. Robinson stroked his mutton-chop whiskers.
“Is that so?” he murmured. “Most interesting, my dear brother—most interesting.” With a benevolent smile he walked over to the bell and rang it.
“Most interesting,” he continued, returning to the other man, who was watching him with fear in his eyes. “Brave words, in fact—but we will see. I think you remarked before you told me the truth, that it was possibly the fault of the electric furnace. A naughty fib, dear brother—and naughty fibs should always be punished. One presses this switch, I think, to start it. Yes—why, I feel the warmth already. And I see that the maximum temperature registered this evening was 2,000° Centigrade. Is that you, Freyder?” he continued without turning his head, as someone entered the room.
“It is, Chief. What’s the trouble?”
“The trouble, Freyder, is that this incredibly stupid old man refuses to carry out his process for me. He has wasted six valuable hours producing a nasty-looking mess of grey powder. He has also wasted a lot of expensive electric current. And we are now going to waste a little more. I can only hope that my experiment will prove more satisfactory than his, though I greatly fear, my dear brother, that you will find it rather more painful.”
“What are you going to do?” Professor Goodman’s voice was shaking, as he looked first at his tormentor, and then at the furnace which was already glowing a dull red.
“I’m going to make quite certain,” remarked Mr. Robinson affably, “that these thermometers register correctly. I imagine that there must be a difference in the feeling of metal at 1,000° and metal at 2,000°, though both, I should think, would be most unpleasant. However, my dear Professor, you will know for certain very shortly. I see that it is just about 1,000° now. The left arm, I think, Freyder—if you would be so good. And perhaps you had better turn up his sleeve: burning cloth gives such an unpleasant smell.”
A dreadful scream rang through the house, and Professor Goodman fell back in his chair almost fainting.
“Only half a second,” murmured Mr. Robinson. “And it will only be half a second at 2,000°—this time. Then, dear brother, you will again carry out your process. If it succeeds—well and good. If it should fail again—I fear we shall have to make it a full second. And a second is a long time under certain conditions.”
Moaning pitifully. Professor Goodman lay back in his chair with his eyes closed.
“I won’t,” he muttered again and again through clenched teeth, while the heat from the furnace grew greater and greater, and the dull red changed to white.
“Foolish fellow,” sighed Mr. Robinson. “However,” he added hopefully, “it’s only half a second this time. And as a special concession I’ll let you off with only 1,900°. Now, Freyder—we are quite ready.”
Freyder took a step forward, and at that moment it happened. He gave one agonised shout of terror, and then scream after scream of agony rang through the house. For it was not Professor Goodman’s arm which touched the white-hot furnace, but Freyder’s face—and to his Chief’s horrified eyes it had seemed as if he had dived straight at it.
“My God!” he muttered foolishly, as Freyder, moaning horribly, dashed from the room. “How did it happen?”
The words died away on his lips and he stood staring into the shadows beyond the light thrown by the furnace. Drummond was sitting on the floor grinning vacantly at space.
“Gug, gug, gug,” he burbled foolishly. “Pretty light.”
Then, apparently bored with life in general, he returned with interest to his occupation.
“Puff—puff!” he cried happily. “Puff—puff! Naughty man kicked train.”
And the train which he was busily pushing along the floor consisted of his own shoes.
Once again Mr. Robinson dashed to the bell and pealed it. His momentary shock at Freyder’s ghastly accident had passed; his sole thought was that Drummond was no longer unconscious. And Drummond in full possession of his physical powers was a dangerous person to have about the place, even if his mind was wandering. But was it? That was the point. Or was he shamming? Such a possibility at once suggested itself to Mr. Robinson’s tortuous brain, and he was not a gentleman who took any unnecessary risks.
He had watched Professor Goodman totter from his chair with a look of wild hope in his face as he realised the unexpected presence of a friend; he had watched him sink back into it again with a groan as his cry for help was greeted with a vacuous grin from the man so happily playing on the floor. But still he was not satisfied, and a revolver gleamed ominously in his hand as he watched his enemy. His mind was made up on one point. Shamming or not shamming—mad or sane—at the slightest hint of trouble on Drummond’s part he would kill him and be done with it. In fact he was sorely tempted to do
