“Well! You don’t have to work on it no longer. I got it. Do you see that, Stetman? Do you see what’s on that paper?”
He thrust Neinsoul’s formula before the astonished lawyer. The man looked at the chemical hieroglyphics and the text below it, written in a fine, accurate, thin hand.
“Where did you get this?” he said.
“Where did I get it!” cried the distiller. “You know where I got it. I got it from your firm of chemists, Lang and Neinsoul.”
The lawyer stepped back from his table.
“I didn’t see Lang,” he said, “he was not at Keator’s.”
Arnbush went on shouting in his excitement.
“Anyhow, I got it of Neinsoul! An’ you see what I’m goin’ to do with it!”
He flourished the paper a moment, wildly, before the lawyer’s strange, contracted face, and then he tore it into bits, scattering the fragments about the room.
And, oblivious to the amazement in Stetman, he went on shouting. The very act of tearing the formula seemed to increase the fury of his manner.