"That's something saved from the wreck, at any rate," he said.
He had gone suddenly old, and his mouth trembled, as many a younger mouth had trembled in despair that Colonel Boundary might become a rich man.
"Something saved from the wreck," he repeated slowly.
The manager's grave eyes were fixed on his.
"I'm not blaming you, Ferguson," said the colonel. "It was a plot to ruin me, and it succeeded."
"What do you think happened?" asked the troubled Ferguson.
"The second package was a box filled with a very strong acid," said the colonel. "Probably the box was made of soft metal, through which the acid would eat in a few hours. It was placed in the safe, and in time the corrosive worked through——"
He shrugged his shoulders and left the room without another word.
"Thirty-five years' work that represents, Crewe," he said as they were driving back to the flat; "thirty-five years of risk and thought and organisation, and ended in pulp—stinking pulp—that burns your fingers when you touch it."
He began to whistle and Crewe noticed with curiosity that he chose the "Soldiers' Chorus" from "Faust" for the dirge to his lost fortune.