“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 briskly, and crossed to the opposite wall. “Here,” he said and tapped the boarding.
“What is it?”
“A spyhole. Someone came here.”
“And who shot at him?”
“Well, I did. If you had crept through the window the same way a fortnight ago someone … would have let fly at you.”
“Who?”
“That’s all the same, this or that state. A good many foreign powers, my friends, have been knocking at this door. And meanwhile you were somewhere, aha! catching fish, eh? Marvellous fellow! But listen, my dear sir,” he said with sudden seriousness, “kindly give up coming here. Never, do you understand?”
“Rubbish!”
“Wait. You won’t find a grenadier waiting for you. Very unpretentious-looking people. Nowadays this sort of thing … is done very discreetly.” Mr. Carson stopped near the window and drummed with his fingers on the glass. “You can’t believe how many letters I got in answer to my advertisement. About six Prokops introduced themselves. … Come and look, quick!”
Prokop came over to the window. “What is it?”
Mr. Carson silently pointed at the road with his short finger. On it a young man was twisting about on a bicycle in a desperate attempt to maintain his equilibrium, each wheel exhibiting a strong inclination to go in a different direction. Mr. Carson looked at Prokop inquiringly.
“Apparently learning to ride,” said Prokop doubtfully.
“Frightfully inept, eh?” said Mr. Carson and opened the window. “Bob.”
The youth on the bicycle stopped instantly: “Yessr.”
“Go to the town for our car!” said Mr. Carson in English.
“Yessr.” And the young cyclist whisked off towards the town.
Mr. Carson turned away from the window. “An Irishman. Very smart lad. What was I going to say? Aha! About six Prokops appeared—meetings in different places, especially at night—amusing, eh? Read this.”
“Come to my laboratory at ten o’clock tonight, Eng. Prokop,” read Prokop as if in a dream. “But this is … practically … my handwriting!”
“You see,” grinned Carson. “My friend, things are warm. Sell the stuff, and be left in peace!”
Prokop shook his head.
Mr. Carson gave him a heavy, fixed look. “You can ask … let us say … twenty million. Sell us Krakatit.”
“No.”
“You will get everything back. Twenty million. Sell it, man!”
“No,” said Prokop heavily. “I don’t want anything to do … with your wars.”
“What’s your position here? A chemist of genius … and lives in a wooden hut! That’s the way your countrymen appreciate you! I know. A great man has no countrymen. Don’t let yourself be worried! Sell it and—”
“I don’t want to.”
Mr. Carson stuck his hands into his pockets and yawned. “Wars! Do you think they can be stopped? Pche! Sell it and don’t worry. You’re a scientist … what does the rest matter to you? Wars! Don’t be silly. While people have nails and teeth—”
“I shan’t sell it,” said Prokop through his teeth.
Mr. Carson shrugged his shoulders. “As you like. We shall discover it ourselves. Or Thomas will. Good.”
There was a moment of silence. “It’s all the same to me,” said Mr. Carson. “If you prefer it we’ll offer it to France, to England, where you like, even to China. Together, see? No one would buy it here. You would be a fool to sell it for twenty million. Trust Carson, eh?”
Prokop shook his head decisively.
“Character,” said Mr. Carson appreciatively. “All honour to it. I like that sort of thing enormously. Listen, I’ll tell you. An absolute secret. I swear it.”
“I’m not asking you for your secrets,” muttered Prokop.
“Bravo. A discreet fellow. Just my type, my dear sir.”
XVIII
Mr. Carson sat down and lit a very fat cigar, after which he reflected for a time. “Tchah!” he said at last. “So it exploded with you also. When was that? The date?”
“I can’t say now.”
“The day of the week?”
“I don’t know. I think … two days after Sunday.”
“Tuesday then. And at what time?”
“About … some time after ten in the evening.”
“Correct.” Mr. Carson thoughtfully blew out some smoke.
“With us it exploded … as you were pleased to express it, ‘by itself’ … on Tuesday at ten thirty-five. Did you notice anything at the time?”
“No. I was asleep.”
“Aha! It also explodes on Fridays, about half-past ten. On Tuesdays and Fridays. We tested it,” he explained in answer to Prokop’s fascinated look. “We left a milligram of Krakatit lying exposed and watched it day and night. It exploded on Tuesday and Friday at half-past ten. Seven times. Once also on a Monday at ten twenty-nine. So.”
Prokop was inwardly horrified.
“A sort of blue spark appears on it,” added Mr. Carson, absorbed, “and then it explodes.”
It was so quiet that Prokop could hear the ticking of Carson’s watch.
“Tchah!” sighed Mr. Carson and rummaged desperately with his hand in his brush of red hair.
“What does it mean?” Prokop burst out.
Mr. Carson only shrugged his shoulders. “And what did you,” he said, “what did you think yourself when it exploded … ‘by itself,’ eh?”
“Nothing,” replied Prokop evasively. “I didn’t speculate … so far.”
Mr. Carson mumbled something uncomplimentary.
“That is,” Prokop corrected himself, “I thought that perhaps … it was done by electromagnetic waves.”
“Aha! Electromagnetic waves. We thought so too. A splendid idea, only idiotic. Unfortunately completely idiotic. So.”
Prokop was completely at a loss.
“To begin with,” continued Mr. Carson, “wireless waves don’t pass over the world only on Tuesdays and Fridays at half-past ten! And secondly, my friend, you must imagine that we at once experimented accordingly. With short, long, all possible waves. And your Krakatit didn’t alter that much,” and he indicated a minute spot on his own nail. “But on Tuesdays and Fridays at half-past ten it conceived the idea of
