Suddenly a thought flashed through his head. There must be some connection between Thomas and that—what’s his name—that cursed Carson! Because nobody else had ever heard anything about Krakatit, only George Thomas and this other. A new picture introduced itself uninvited into the blurred film of his memory: he, Prokop, was muttering something in his fever (it must have been in Thomas’s room), and George bent over him and wrote something down in a notebook. “Without the slightest doubt that must have been my formula!” he cried. “He wheedled it out of me, stole it, and probably sold it to that Carson!” Prokop grew cold at the thought of such baseness. Christ! and that girl had fallen into the hands of a man like him! If anything in the world was clear it was that she must be protected at any cost!
Good! To begin with he must find Thomas, that criminal. He would give him the sealed package and in addition he would smash his face for him. Also, he would get him in his power. Thomas would have to tell him the name and address of that girl and promise—no; no promises from such a waster. But he would go to her and tell her everything. And then he would disappear from her eyes forever.
Satisfied with this cavalier decision, Prokop got up. Ah, to find out—that was the only thing—where the girl lived! He saw her again, standing elegant and strong; nothing in her glance betrayed any contact with Thomas. Was she capable of lying with such eyes … ?
Then, drawing in his breath with pain, he broke the seals, and tore off the paper and string. Inside was a letter and some banknotes.
XIV
Meanwhile Doctor Thomas was sitting at breakfast grunting and puffing after working hard at a difficult delivery. From time to time he threw anxious and inquisitorial glances at Annie, who sat motionless, neither eating nor drinking, simply unable to believe that Prokop had not yet put in an appearance. Her lips were trembling and she was evidently about to cry. Then Prokop came in, with inappropriate buoyancy, pale, and incapable even of sitting down, as if he were in a hurry. He greeted her perfunctorily, giving her a casual glance as if he had never seen her before, and immediately asked with impulsive impatience: “Where’s your George?” The doctor swung round, disconcerted. … “What?”
“Where is your son now?” repeated Prokop, and devoured him with threatening eyes.
“How should I know?” grunted the doctor. “I don’t want to hear of his existence.”
“Is he in Prague?” insisted Prokop, clenching his fists. The doctor was silent but within him something was working swiftly.
“I must see him,” said Prokop incoherently. “I must, do you hear? I must go and see him now, at once! Where is he?”
The doctor made a chewing movement with his jaws and walked towards the door.
“Where is he, where does he live?”
“I don’t know,” shouted the doctor in a voice which was not his own, and slammed the door.
Prokop turned to Annie. She sat frozen and looked into the distance with her large eyes.
“Annie,” said Prokop feverishly, “you must tell me where your George is. I—I must go and see him, do you understand? that is to say … it’s a question of. … To cut it short, it’s to do with … I. … Read this,” he said quickly, and stuck in front of her eyes the crumpled fragment of newspaper. But Annie saw nothing but some circles or other.
“That’s my discovery, do you see?” he explained nervously. “A certain Carson is looking for me—where’s your George?”
“We don’t know,” whispered Annie. “It’s two … quite two years since he wrote to us—”
“Ah!” growled Prokop and angrily crushed the paper into a ball. It was as if the girl had turned to stone, only her eyes grew larger and between her half-closed lips she breathed out something confused and painful.
Prokop would have liked to sink through the ground. “Annie,” he said at last, breaking the painful silence, “I shall come back. I … in a few days. … You see, this is a very important business. A man … after all must consider … his work. And he has, you know, certain … certain obligations. …” (God, how he had botched it!) “Consider that … I simply must,” he cried suddenly. “I would rather died than not go, you see?”
Annie only nodded her head slightly. Ah, if she had moved it more it would have sunk on the table and she would have burst out crying; but, as it was, her eyes only filled with tears.
“Annie,” cried Prokop in desperation, and took shelter near the door, “I won’t even take leave of you; look, it isn’t worth it; in a week, a month I shall be here again … see—” He could not help watching her; she sat perfectly still, with relaxed shoulders; he could not see her eyes; it was painful to look at her. “Annie,” he tried again, and again was unable to go on. The last moment in the doorway seemed to him to be endless; he felt that there was still something which he should say or do, but instead he forced out of himself an “Au revoir” and stole miserably away.
He left the house like a thief, on tiptoe. For a moment he hesitated outside the door behind which he had left Annie. Inside all was quiet, a fact which
