“Well, what can I do for you?” asked the chemist, rubbing his hands. “Have you a sample of blood for me to analyze, or a dead body you want me to boil up in a test-tube? Trot it out,” and he smiled.
“I don’t know whether you will be able to help us or not,” said Mr. Newton, who had known the chemist for a long time, and who had frequently come to him for information concerning stories where chemistry played a part.
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t guarantee to solve impossibilities. I can’t tell what you had for breakfast by looking at your hat, as some reporters think a detective can. Besides, I’m not a detective.”
“This is strictly in your line,” said Mr. Newton, pulling the piece of paper with blue marks on it from his pocket, and holding it out to the chemist. “What is that?”
The chemist looked at it without touching it. He bent over closer, and applied his nose to it.
“It will not bite you,” said Mr. Newton.
“I know it will not,” was the answer. “But I want to get every impression I can from it before I take it into my hands. After I have handled it I cannot detect the odor as plainly, providing there is an odor, as there happens to be in this case. Now, what do you want me to do?” and he took the blue-marked paper from Mr. Newton’s fingers.
“What made those marks?” asked the reporter.
“There you go!” exclaimed Mr. Hosfer. “You think I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes. I can’t tell what made ’em at a moment’s glance. I doubt if even Sherlock Holmes could. I might make a guess, and hit it, or I might not. Probably not. I could say they were ink, or from a typewriter ribbon, or from bluing that was used at the weekly wash, or from water colors, or from oil colors, or—or some chemical. I’m inclined to think they’re some chemical, but, of course, it’s only a guess. You see, I only have one chance among a good many certainties of guessing. I must make an analysis.”
“That’s exactly what we want you to do,” said Mr. Newton. “Can you do it now?”