The window was too grimed for him to see clearly, but what he could
make out had the appearance of a chemical laboratory and machine shop
combined. A long work bench was lit by several electrics. On it he
saw glass vials of odd shapes, and a medley of tools. Sheets of tin,
lengths of lead pipe, gas burners, a vise, boilers and cylinders, tall
jars of coloured fluids. He could hear a dull humming sound, which he
surmised came from some sort of revolving tool which he could see was
run by a belt from a motor. On trying to spy more clearly he found
that what he had taken for dirt was a coat of whitewash which had been
applied to the window on the inside, but the coating had worn away in
one spot which gave him a loophole. What surprised him most was to spy
the covers of a number of books strewn about the work table. One, he
was ready to swear, was the Cromwell. He knew that bright blue cloth
by this time.

For the second time that evening Aubrey wished for the presence of one
of his former instructors. "I wish I had my old chemistry professor
here," he thought. "I'd like to know what this bird is up to. I'd
hate to swallow one of his prescriptions."

His teeth were chattering after the long exposure and he was wet
through from lying in the little gutter that apparently drained off
from the sink in Weintraub's prescription laboratory. He could not see
what the druggist was doing in the cellar, for the man's broad back was
turned toward him. He felt as though he had had quite enough thrills
for one evening. Creeping along he found his way back to the yard, and
stepped cautiously among the empty boxes with which it was strewn. An
elevated train rumbled overhead, and he watched the brightly lighted
cars swing by. While the train roared above him, he scrambled up the
fence and dropped down into the alley.

"Well," he thought, "I'd give full-page space, preferred position, in
the magazine Ben Franklin founded to the guy that'd tell me what's
going on at this grand bolshevik headquarters. It looks to me as
though they're getting ready to blow the Octagon Hotel off the map."

He found a little confectionery shop on Wordsworth Avenue that was
still open, and went in for a cup of hot chocolate to warm himself.
"The expense account on this business is going to be rather heavy," he
said to himself. "I think I'll have to charge it up to the Daintybits
account. Say, old Grey Matter gives service that's DIFFERENT,