“Show it me.”
Marcel took the jar, removed the stopper, and poured into his hand a few small brown shavings. An odour of camphor spread throughout the room.
“It is the war powder in flakes, but I intend to manufacture it in pastilles. Then it will resemble an ordinary button without holes. In flakes it is more convenient for charging large projectiles. In pastilles it will be better suited for cartridge sockets. Non-compressed it burns like German tinder, with a smell of disinfecting powder, and entirely without smoke. Would you like to see it?”
“No!” said Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not care to see you handling such substances. One never knows! They might explode without any one expecting it!”
“Impossible! Besides, as this powder smells of camphor it might be placed with one’s clothes during the summer to prevent the moths from spoiling them.”
He laughed aloud. Uncle Graff, slightly reassured, forced him to place the bottle back on to the table.
“And the commerce powder?”
“I have none manufactured. But the formula is already there in the drawer.”
“With this formula Trémont’s discovery may be exploited?”
“Certainly, on condition one knows how to make use of it. But that is my secret, which I shall reveal only at the moment the exploitation commences. The different kinds of products employed, with their dosings, are specified.”