," Scott began. "I thought it was Seaton in here at
first. A fellow has to see your faces to tell you two apart. Speaking of
Seaton, d'you think that he's quite right?"

"I should say, off-hand, that he was a little out of control last night
and this morning," replied DuQuesne, manipulating connections with his
long, muscular fingers. "I don't think that he's insane, and I don't
believe that he dopes--probably overwork and nervous strain. He'll be
all right in a day or two."

"I think he's a plain nut, myself. That sure was a wild yarn he sprung
on us, wasn't it? His imagination was hitting on all twelve, that's
sure. He seems to believe it himself, though, in spite of making a flat
failure of his demonstration to us this morning. He saved that waste
solution he was working on--what was left of that carboy of platinum
residues after he had recovered all the values, you know--and got them
to put it up at auction this noon. He resigned from the Bureau, and he
and M. Reynolds Crane, that millionaire friend of his, bid it in for ten
cents."

"M. Reynolds Crane?" DuQuesne concealed a start of surprise. "Where does
he come in on this?"

"Oh, they're always together in everything. They've been thicker than
Damon and Pythias for a long time. They play tennis together--they're
doubles champions of the District, you know--and all kinds of things.
Wherever you find one of them you'll usually find the other. Anyway,
after they got the solution Crane took Seaton in his car, and somebody
said they went out to Crane's house. Probably trying to humor him. Well,
ta-ta; I've got a week's work to do yet today."

As Scott left DuQuesne dropped his work and went to his desk, with a new
expression, half of chagrin, half of admiration, on his face. Picking up
his telephone, he called a number.

"Brookings?" he asked, cautiously. "This is DuQuesne. I must see you
immediately. There's something big started that may as well belong to
us.... No, can't say anything over the telephone.... Yes, I'll be right
out."

He left the laboratory and soon was in the private office of the head of
the Washington or "diplomatic" branch, as it was known in certain
circles, of the great World Steel Corporation. Offices and laboratories
were maintained in the city, ostensibly for research work, but in
reality to be near the center of political activity.

"How do you do, Doctor DuQuesne?" Brookings said as he seated his
visitor. "You seem excited."

"No