Simplicity itself! Also, what a perfect alibi! Suppose anything did leak out? Suppose the boy did make a fuss—claim the idea as his own? Would it have been likely, then, under such circumstances, that he, Leffingwell Hope, would have assisted in getting a job right here in this same company for this boy whose idea he was about to use as his own? Certainly not—a perfect alibi. And because the boy _was_ around the offices, that could be shown to be the way _he_ had stolen the idea from Mr. Hope. The thing was perfect—it couldn’t fail. All he needed now was some technical dope. Merkle would be the man. He would see Merkle. Shifty little man, but he could handle him. Mr. Leffingwell Hope felt very pleased with himself when his meditations reached this point. He tossed his empty cigarette box into the waste-basket and went in to see Mr. Wentworth. “About that boy who was in here just now,” he began casually, finding the president disengaged at the moment. “I thought you might be amused. A crazy, wild idea. It seems his mother or somebody owns some land up in Alberta. Somebody else struck natural gas ten or twenty miles away. He seemed to think we’d be anxious to drill on his mother’s place and put a factory there if we were lucky enough to bring in a well. Something like that, anyway—he talked so wild I couldn’t follow him exactly.” The president smiled. “Why didn’t you tell him about the McKeesport gas wells—that’s a little nearer home. They’re bringing one in every day down there.” “I promised him I’d tell you what he said, so I’m doing it, but you know—” Mr. Hope waved his hand vaguely. “Earnest-looking boy,” said Mr. Wentworth. “Tell him I’m sorry—not interested.” * * * * * Isaac Merkle was a consulting chemist who did a considerable amount of work for the Wentworth Glass Company. He lived and worked in a six-room flat on the top floor of a tenement house in that somewhat unsalubrious section of New York known as Hell’s Kitchen. His laboratory consisted of one large room that had been formed by knocking down the partitions of three smaller rooms; it was in the other three rooms that Mr. Merkle, who was a bachelor, lived alone. The laboratory was a long, bare room, with a skylight. It was furnished with two long wooden tables, littered with chemical apparatus, several small chairs, and a wooden table. There was a large soapstone sink over at one side, and a long, low shelf down one wall, with a row of villainous-looking bottles upon it. To this laboratory, by appointment, came Mr. Leffingwell Hope that very same evening. Mr. Merkle, as agreed, was quite alone when the secretary arrived. The chemist was a fat, middle-aged little man, with a round, very red, smooth-shaven face, an over-large nose, and mouse-colored hair with a bald spot on top.