“What is it?”
“It involves another visit to our chemist friend, Mr. Hosfer,” replied Mr. Newton. “I think we’ll enlist his aid in this case. He’s a sort of amateur detective among his other accomplishments.”
So that evening they went to the chemist’s house. They found him in the midst of his bottles and test tubes, working away, while a most unpleasant odor pervaded the laboratory.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” called the chemist, as Larry and Mr. Newton entered. “I can’t seem to get this mixture just right.”
“It seems plenty strong enough,” remarked Mr. Newton, holding his handkerchief to his nose. “What in the world is it?”
“Something with which to take out inkstains. Do you object to the smell?”
“Well, it isn’t exactly what you would call a perfume,” said Mr. Newton.
“It’s got to be strong, you know,” said Mr. Hosfer. “Otherwise it would not work. But I’ll stop for a while, and talk to you. I suppose you have some horrible, mysterious, sensational, blood-curdling, hair-raising, nerve-racking case on your hands. Oh, you reporters are the most terrible fellows in the world! Living amid blood and thunder, it’s a wonder to me you ever sleep,” and laughing heartily, in strange contrast to his rather exciting language, Mr. Hosfer came forward, and shook hands with them.
“The smell don’t come off,” he said, with a smile.
“I wish some of it would go out,” remarked Mr. Newton. “Can’t you open a window or—or make some other odor take its place? It smells like a skunk factory in here.”