For that matter, what did he, Morris Craig, intend to do with it?
He had to admit to himself that he had never, from the moment of inspiration which had led to these results right up to this present hour, given a thought to possible applications of the monstrous force he had harnessed.
Brushing back that obstinate forelock, he dismissed these ideas which were non-productive, merely disturbing, and sat down to read two letters which Camille Navarre had left to be signed. He possessed the capacity, indispensable to success in research, of banishing any train of thought not directly concerned with the problem before him.
But, even as he picked up the typed pages, another diversion intruded.
A pair of black-rimmed glasses lay on the desk. He knew they were Camille’s, and he was surprised that she had not missed them.
He had often wondered what defect marred those beautiful eyes, and so he removed his own glasses and put hers on.
Craig’s sight was good, and he aided it during prolonged work merely to combat a slight astigmatism of the left eye. His lenses magnified only very slightly.
But—Camille’s didn’t magnify at all!
He satisfied himself that they were, in fact, nothing but plain glass, before laying them down.
Having signed the letters, he pressed a button.
Camille entered composedly and crossed to the desk.
“It was so stupid of me, Dr. Craig,” she said, “but I must have left my glasses here when I brought the letters in.”
Craig looked up at her. Yes, she had glorious eyes. He thought they were very deep blue, but they seemed to change in sympathy with her thoughts or emotions. Their evasive color reminded him of the Mediterranean on a day when high clouds scudded across the sky.
She met his glance for a moment and then turned aside, taking up the typed pages and the black-rimmed glasses.
“That last cylinder was rather scratchy, and there are one or two words I’m uncertain about.”
But Craig continued to look at her.
“Why wear those things at all?” he inquired. “You wouldn’t miss ‘em.”
“What do you mean. Dr. Craig?”
“Well—they’re plain glass, aren’t they? Why wear two bits of windowpane—in such perfectly lovely optics?”
Camille hesitated. She had not been prepared for his making this discovery, and her heart was beating very fast.
“Really, I suppose it must seem strange. I know they don’t magnify. But, somehow, they help me to concentrate.”
“Avoid concentration,” Craig advised earnestly. “I greatly prefer you when you’re relaxin’. I have looked over the letter—”
“I did my best with it.”
“Your best is perfection. Exactly what I said, and stickily technical.” He looked up at her with frank admiration. “Your scientific equipment is A-l wizard. Full marks for the Sorbonne.”
Camille veiled her eyes. She had long lashes which Craig felt sure were an act of God and not of Elizabeth Arden.
But all she said was, “Thank you. Dr. Craig,” spoken in a tone oddly constrained.
Carrying the signed letters and her glasses, she moved away. Craig turned and looked after the trim figure.
“Slip out now,” he advised, “for a plate of wholesome fodder. You stick it too closely. So long as you can give me an hour from ten onward, all’s well in a beautiful world.”
“Perhaps I may go out—although I’m really not hungry.”
She went into her room and closed the door. For a long time she sat there, the useless glasses in her hand, staring straight before her. . . He was so kind, so delicately sympathetic. He almost apologized when he had to give orders, masking them under that affected form of speech which led many people to think him light-minded, but which had never deceived Camille.
Of course, he was brilliantly clever. One day the people of the world would wake up to find a new genius come among them.
He was so clever that she found it hard to believe he had really accepted her explanation. She had done her best on the urge of the moment, but it was only postponing the evil hour. Camille had never, before that day, met Sir Denis Nayland Smith, but his reputation made discovery certain. And he would tell Morris.
Or would he? Meanwhile, Craig was tidying up prior to going out to join Nayland Smith. He arranged pencils, bowls of ink, and like impedimenta in some sort of order. The board to which the plan was pinned he lifted from its place and carried across the office. Before a large safe he set it down, pulled out a key-ring, manipulated the dial, and unlocked the safe.
He placed the plan inside and relocked the steel door.
This done, he returned to his desk and pressed a button on the switchboard.
“Laboratory,” said a tired voice. “Regan speaking.”
“I’m cutting out for some dinner, Regan. Anything you want to see me about before I go?”
“Nothing, Doctor.”
“Right. Back around ten.”
He stood up—then remained standing, for a moment, quite still, and listening.
The sound of a short, harsh cough, more like that of a dog who has swallowed a fragment of bone than of a human being, had reached his ears.
Crossing, he opened the office door and looked out. The landing was empty.
“Sam!” he called.
Sam appeared from somewhere, chewing industriously.
“Yes, boss?”
“Did you cough?”
“Me? No, sir. Why?”
“Thought I heard someone coughing. Stand by. I want you to come along with me in a minute.”
He returned took his jacket from a hook and put it on: then draped his topcoat over his arm. He was just reaching for his hat, when he remembered something. Dropping the coat over the back of a chair, he crossed to the door of Camille’s room, rapped, and opened.
She looked up in a startled way, glancing at the glasses beside her.
“Sorry—er—Miss Navarre, but may I borrow your key? Lent mine to Nayland Smith.”
Camille’s eyes appeared to Craig to change color, but that faint twitch of the lip which heralded a smile reassured him.
“Certainly, Dr. Craig.”
She pulled a ring out of her handbag and began to detach the key which opened both elevators and the street door. Craig watched her deft white fingers, noting with approval that she did not go in for the kind of nail varnish which suggests that its wearer has been disembowelling a pig.
And as he watched, the meaning of Camille’s repressed smile suddenly came to him.
“I say!” he exclaimed. “Just a minute. Pause. Give me time to reflect.”
Camille looked up.
“Yes. Dr. Craig?”
“How are you going to cut out for eats, as recommended, if I pinch your key?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter a little bit.”
“Doesn’t matter? It matters horribly. I’m not going to leave you locked up here in the ogre’s tower with no means of escape. I firmly repeat—pause. I will borrow Regan’s key.”
“But—”
“There are no buts. I want you to nip out for a speck of nourishment, like a good girl.”
He waved his hand and was gone
Camille sat looking towards the door for fully a minute after it had closed.
* * *
“It may be best,” said Nayland Smith, “if we dine in the restaurant here. I expect calls, too.”
“Must say I’ll breathe more freely,” Craig admitted. “I never expected to slink around New York as if crossing enemy territory. What news of Moreno?”
Smith knocked ash from his pipe with unusual care.
“Poor devil,” he said softly.
“Like that, is it?”
Smith nodded. “I went there after leaving you. His wife had been sent for. Nice kid, little more than a child. Only married six months. Maddison Lowe is probably the ace man in his province, but he’s beaten this time.”
“Have they identified the stuff used?”