't travel. Tell them we're opening a new factory, and put them
up at the local hotel."

Milsom inclined his head.

"That sounds easy," he said, "I could take charge of them until the time
came to skip. One can get a boat at Greenock."

"I shall miss you," said van Heerden frankly, "you were necessary to me,
Milsom. You're the driving force I wanted, and the only man of my class
and calibre I can ever expect to meet, one who would go into this
business with me."

They had reached the big vault and van Heerden stood regarding the scene
of mental activity with something approaching complacency.

"There is a billion in process of creation," he said.

"I could never think in more than six figures," said Milsom, "and it is
only under your cheering influence that I can stretch to seven. I am
going to live in the Argentine, van Heerden. A house on a hill----"

The other shivered, but Milsom went on.

"A gorgeous palace of a house, alive with servants. A string band, a
perfectly equipped laboratory where I can indulge my passion for
research, a high-powered auto, wine of the rarest--ah!"

Van Heerden looked at his companion curiously.

"That appeals to you, does it? For me, the control of finance. Endless
schemes of fortune; endless smashings of rivals, railways, ships, great
industries juggled and shuffled--that is the life I plan."

"Fine!" said the other laconically.

They walked to a bench and the worker looked up and took off his mask.

He was an old man, and grinned toothlessly at van Heerden.

"Good evening, Signor Doctor," he said in Italian. "Science is long and
life is short, signor."

He chuckled and, resuming his mask, returned to his work, ignoring the
two men as though they had no existence.

"A little mad, old Castelli," said Milsom, "that's his one little
piece--what crooked thing has he done?"

"None that I know," said the other carelessly; "he lost his wife and two
daughters in the Messina earthquake. I picked him up cheap. He's a
useful chemist."

They walked from bench to bench, but van Heerden's eyes continuously
strayed to the door, behind which he pictured a caged Stanford Beale,
awaiting his doom. The men were beginning to depart now. One by one they
covered their instruments and their trays, slipped off their masks and
overalls and disappeared through the door, upon which van Heerden's gaze
was so often fixed. Their exit, however, would not take them near
Beale's prison. A few paces