Before we had gone many steps, we encountered another inhabitant, a cadaverous young man with an acid stain on his sleeve. He stopped and wished us “Good-evening,” being apparently glad to meet someone to whom he could talk. It was a relief to find that he appeared to be perfectly sane. I had become so accustomed to abnormality by this time that I think his sanity came almost as an unexpected thing. I asked him what he did to pass the time.
“I was working at some alkaloid constitutions when the Plague came, and I just went on with that. I’ve got one definitely settled except for the position of a single methyl radicle, now; and I think I shall get that fixed in a day or two. But probably you aren’t a chemist?”
“No. Not my line.”
“Rather a pity—for me, I mean. One does like to explain what one has done; and there’s no chance of that now.”
It seemed to me a pity that this enthusiast should be lost. Probably Nordenholt could find some use for him.
“I think I could put you in touch with some other chemists if you like; but you would need to trust me in the matter. Is there anyone depending on you, any relatives?”
“No, they’re all gone by now.”
“Well, I think I might manage it. I believe I could put you in the way of being some use; and it might be the saving of your life, too, for I suppose your food is almost out.”
A famished look came into his face and I realised what food meant to him.
“Could you? I’d be awfully grateful. I’m down to the laboratory stores of glycerine and fatty acids now for nourishment, and it’s pretty thin, I can tell you. Could you really do something?”