“Then you want much,” answered Von Holzen, with his slight accent.
“Oh, I want more than that,” was the retort; “I want a list of your deaths—not necessarily for publication. If the public were to hear of it, they would pull the place down about your ears, and probably hang you on your own water-tower.”
Von Holzen laughed. “Ah, my fine gentleman, if there is any hanging up to be done, you are in it, too,” he said. Then he broke into a good-humoured laugh, and waved the question aside with his hand. “But why should we quarrel? It is mere foolishness. We are not schoolboys, but men of the world, who are reasonable, I hope. I cannot give you the prescription because it is a trade secret. You would not understand it without expert assistance, and the expert would turn his knowledge to account. We chemists, you see, do not trust each other. No; but I can make malgamite here before your eyes—to show you that it is harmless—what?” He spoke easily, with a certain fascination of manner, as a man to whom speech was easy enough—who was perhaps silent with a set purpose—because silence is safe. “But it is a long process,” he added, holding up one finger, “I warn you. It will take me two hours. And you, who have perhaps not dined, and this Roden, who is tired out—”
“Roden can go home—if he is tired,” said Cornish.
“Well,” answered Von Holzen, with outspread hands, “it is as you like. Will you have it now and here?”
“Yes—now and here.”
Roden was slowly folding away his papers and closing his books. He glanced curiously at Von Holzen, as if he were displaying a hitherto unknown side to his character. Von Holzen, too, was collecting the papers scattered on his desk, with a patient air and a half-suppressed sigh of weariness, as if he were entering upon a work of supererogation.
“As to the deaths,” he said, “I can demonstrate that as we go along. You will see where the dangers lie, and how criminally neglectful these people are. It is a curious thing, that carelessness of life. I am told the Russian soldiers have it.”
It seemed that in his way Herr von Holzen was a philosopher, having in his mind a store of odd human items. He certainly had the power of arousing curiosity and making his hearers wish him to continue speaking, which is rare. Most men are uninteresting because they talk too much.
“Then I think I will go,” said Roden, rising. He looked from one to the other, and received no answer. “Good night,” he added, and walked to the door with dragging feet.