The engineer only shrugged his shoulders, and with bent head went on pacing up and down the room.

G. H. Bondy’s eyes followed him with childish astonishment. “The man’s crazy,” he said to himself. “All the same, what the devil is it that comes over one in that cellar? That tormenting bliss, that tremendous security, that terror, that overwhelming feeling of devotion, or whatever you like to call it.” Mr. Bondy arose and poured himself out another dash of brandy.

“I say, Marek,” he said, “I’ve got it now.”

“Got what?” exclaimed Marek, halting.

“That business in the cellar. That queer psychical condition. It’s some form of poisoning, isn’t it? . . .”

Marek gave an angry laugh. “Oh, yes, of course, poisoning!”

“I thought so at once,” declared Bondy, his mind at rest in an instant. “That apparatus of yours produces something, ah . . . er . . . something like ozone, doesn’t it? Or more likely poisonous gas. And when anyone inhales it, it . . . er . . . poisons him or excites him somehow, isn’t that it? Why, of course, man, it’s nothing but poisonous gases; they’re probably given off somehow by the combustion of the coal in that . . . that Karburator of yours. Some sort of illuminating gas or paradise gas, or phosgene or something of the sort. That’s why you’ve put in the ventilator, and that’s why you wear a gas-mask when you go into the cellar, isn’t it? Just some confounded gases.”

“If only there were nothing but gases!” Marek burst out, shaking his fists threateningly. “Look here, Bondy, that’s why I must sell that Karburator! I simply can’t stand it—I can’t stand it . . . I can’t stand it,” he shouted, well-nigh weeping. “I never dreamed my Karburator would do anything like this . . . this . . . terrifying mischief! Just think, it’s been going on like that from the very beginning! And every one feels it who comes near the thing. You haven’t any notion even yet, Bondy. But our porter caught it properly.”

“Poor fellow!” said the astonished Bondy, full of sympathy. “And did he die of it?”

“No, but he got converted,” cried Marek in despair. “Bondy, you’re a man I can confide in. My invention, my Karburator, has one terrible defect. Nevertheless, you’re going to buy it or else take it from me as a gift. You will, Bondy—even if it spews forth demons. It doesn’t matter to you, Bondy, so long as you can get your millions out of it. And you’ll get them, man. It’s a stupendous thing, I tell you—; but I don’t want to have anything more to do with it. You haven’t such a sensitive conscience as I have, you know, Bondy. It’ll bring in millions, thousands of millions; but it will lay a frightful load upon your conscience. Make up your mind!”