"What's a quaker?"
"This case here is what we call a quaker. Why? Because it makes one quake. Look at these bottles. They're full of paper and sawdust. Look at this one. Old rags. Here's a 2-lb. atoxyl bottle, for which we paid twenty-eight pounds, not to speak of the duty. It's full of dust like the rest."
"But, good Lord, Lionel! Where could it have been done? Who could have done it? We got these direct from the very best London house."
"There were rats on the way," said Lionel. "You remember we stopped off a day at that place Kwasi Bembo, where we hired Merrylegs? Well. This was probably done at Kwasi Bembo by one of those foreign storekeepers. An easy way of making money for them."
"I don't see how he did it."
"Oh, he could have done it easily enough, while we were having our siestas. It doesn't matter much, though, where it was done, does it?"
"Don't despair yet," said Roger. "There must be another box somewhere. Here. Open this one. The stencil is ground off. What's inside this one?"
"It looks promising," said Lionel. "It's screwed; it isn't nailed. Off, now." He thrust the lid away with a violent heave. Roger peered in anxiously.
"Nothing but stones in this one," said Lionel. "Not even our bottles left. We'd better open all our cases, and find out what else has been taken. I suppose that's our last box of chemicals?"
"It's the last here."