As we gathered about the table, Monsieur took a knife and began to press its blade into the covering of the bomb, saying:
"I have known the builder of one of these to leave his tracks inside, trusting the explosion to obliterate them. But sometimes the machine does not go off."
"Let's hope this'll be one of those times," Tommy murmured, "or we'll pretty well leave our tracks all over the Gulf. Don't use any bad judgment, Professor. Centuries are looking down at you!"
"I shall try not," he smiled, pushing the blade deeper and giving a gentle twist.
"I should say he ought to be doing that ashore, sir," Gates whispered. "Lor' knows this is no place——"
But Monsieur was speaking again.
"The gentleman who left it with us may have used bad judgment by not exploding it himself. So much the worse for him. Steady!" he grunted, peeling off another slice of the wrapper. "Yet, if criminals did not sometimes use bad judgment, a sorry plight would be ours, eh? Moreover, it is natural that they use bad judgment, for, being criminals, their judgment is bad—primarily bad, or they would not be criminals."
"Please work without your tongue or talk without your hands," I said, with a touch of irritation. "That thing's nervous for undivided attention!"
The professor may not have heard, and in a monotone continued:
"The man who made it knew his business; therefore he is a student of this type of explosives; therefore a police agent, a—what you call—crank like myself, or a destroying criminal—that is, an anarchist. Therefore he is the last named, since neither of the others would want to blow up a gentleman's yacht. It seems clear to you?" he asked, without raising his eyes; but none of us cared to divert his attention by answering.