“What’s that half-wit doing down here?” Frobisher inquired politely.
“D’you mean Sam? Oh, he’s going to—er—lend me a hand overhauling your burglar system.”
“Probably make a good job of it, between you,” Frobisher commented drily. “When you’ve combed your hair, Craig, come along to my study. We have a lot to talk about. Where’s the plan?”
Craig tapped his chest. He was in a mood of high exaltation.
“On our person, good sir. Only over our dead body could caitiffs win to the treasure.”
And in a room all daintily chintz, with delicate water colors and lots of daffodils, Camille was looking out of an opened window, at an old English garden, and wondering if her happiness could last.
Stein tapped at the door, placed Camille’s bag inside, and retired.
“Don’t bother to unpack, my dear,” said Stella. “Flora, my maid, is superlative.”
Camille turned to her, impulsively.
“You are very kind, Mrs. Frobisher. And it was so good of you to make that appointment for me with Professor Hoffmeyer,”
“With Professor Hoffmeyer? Oh! my dear! Did I, really? Of course”—seeing Camille’s strange expression—”I must have done. It’s queer and it’s absurd, but, do you know, I’m addicted to the oddest lapses of memory.”
“You are7” Camille exclaimed; then, as it sounded so rude, she added, “I mean lam, too.”
“You are?” Stella exclaimed in turn, and seized both her hands. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad! I mean, I know I sound silly, and a bit horrid. What I wanted to say was, it’s such a relief to meet somebody else who suffers in that way. Someone who has no possible reason for going funny in the head. But tell me—what did you think of him?”
Camille looked earnestly into the childish but kindly eyes.
“I must tell you, Mrs. Frobisher—impossible though it sounds— that I have no recollection whatever of going there!”
“My dear!” Stella squeezed her hands encouragingly. “I quite understand. Whatever do you suppose is the matter with us?”
“I’m afraid I can’t even imagine.”
“Could it be some new kind of epidemic?”
Camille’s heart was beating rapidly, her expression was introspective; for she was, as Dr. Fu Manchu had told her (but she had forgotten), a personable woman with a brain.
“I don’t know. Suppose we compare notes—”
Michael Frobisher’s study, the window of which offered a prospect of such woodland as Fenimore Cooper wrote about, was eminently that of a man of business. The books were reference books, the desk had nothing on it but a phone, a blotting-pad, pen, ink, a lamp, an almanac, and a photograph of Stella. The safe was built into the wall. No unnecessary litter.
“There’s the safe I told you about,” he was saying. “There’s the key—and the combination is right here.” He touched his rugged forehead. “Yet—I found the damned thing wide open! My papers”—he pulled out a drawer—”were sorted like a teller sorts checks. I know. I always have my papers in order. Then—somebody goes through my butler’s room.” He banged his big fist on the desk. “And not a bolt drawn, not a window opened!”
“Passing strange,” Craig murmured. He glanced at the folded diagram. “Hardly seems worthwhile to lock it up.”
Michael Frobisher stared at the end of his half-smoked cigar, twirling it between strong fingers.
“There’s been nothing since I installed the alarm system. But I don’t trust anybody. I want you to test it. Meanwhile”—he laid his hand on the paper—”how long will it take you to finish this thing?”
“Speaking optimistically, two hours.”
“You mean, in two hours it will be possible to say we’re finished?”
“Hardly. Shaw has to make the valves. Wonderful fellow, Shaw. Then we have to test the brute in action. When that bright day dawns, it may be the right time to say we’re finished!”
Frobisher put his cigar back in his hard mouth, and stared at Craig.
“You’re a funny guy,” he said. “It took a man like me to know you had the brains of an Einstein. I might have regretted the investment if Martin Shaw hadn’t backed you—and Regan. I’m doubtful of Regan—now. But he knows the game. Then—you’ve shown me things.”
“A privilege, Mr. Frobisher.”
Frobisher stood up.
“Don’t go all Oxford on me. Listen. When this detail here is finished, you say we shall be in a position to tap a source of inexhaustible energy which completely tops atomic power?”
“I say so firmly. Whether we can control the monster depends entirely upon—that.”
“The transmuter valve?”
“Exactly. It’s only a small gadget. Shaw could make all three of ‘em in a few hours. But if it works, Mr. Frobisher, and I know it will, we shall have at our command a force, cheaply obtained, which could (a) blow our world to bits, or (b) enable us to dispense with costly things like coal, oil, enormous atomic plants, and the like, forever. I am beginning to see tremendous possibilities.”
“Fine.”
Michael Frobisher was staring out of the window. His heavy face was transfigured. He, too, the man of commerce, the opportunist, could see those tremendous possibilities. No doubt he saw possibilities which had never crossed the purely scientific mind of Morris Craig.
“So,” said Craig, picking up the diagram and the notes, “I propose that I retire to my cubicle and busy myself until cocktails are served. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Remember—not a word to Mrs. F.”
When Craig left the study, Frobisher stood there for a long time, staring out of the window.
* * *
But Morris Craig’s route to his “cubicle” had been beset by an obstacle—Mrs. F. As he crossed the library towards the stair, she came in by another door. She glanced at the folded diagram.
“My dear Dr. Craig! Surely you haven’t come here to work?”
Craig pulled up, and smiled. Stella had always liked his smile; it was so English.
“Afraid, yes. But not for too long, I hope. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll nip up and get going right away.”
“But it’s too bad. How soon will you be ready to nip down again?”
“Just give me the tip when the bar opens.”
“Of course I will. But, you know, I have been talking to Camille. She is truly a dear girl. I don’t mean expensive. I mean charming.”
Craig’s attention was claimed, magically, by his hostess’s words.
“So glad you think so. She certainly is—brilliant.”
Stella Frobisher smiled her hereditary smile. She was quite without sex malice, and she had discovered a close link to bind her to Camille.
“Why don’t you. forget work? Why don’t you two scientific people go for a walk in the sunshine? After all, that’s what you’re here for.”
And Morris Craig was sorely tempted. Yes, that was what he was here for. But—