Cleek soon found, too, that her contempt for Captain Kenneth was as great as her inordinate love for her own son by her first marriage, Max Wertz, a brilliant young scamp of the class of bar-loafers and roulette-table haunters. It did not take Cleek long, either, to discover that, unknown to the old Colonel or Kenneth, both mother and son were keenly curious as to the work carried on in the concrete laboratory. Cleek played right up both to mother and son, however, and had the satisfaction of obtaining from both unqualified approval. "I say, Deland, you're a good sort," said young Wertz in the drawing-room that evening--a shade too enthusiastically, perhaps--"but hang it all, if you can go into that silly old stone coffin of a laboratory, why can't I? Jealousy, that's it! Old Ken thinks he's the only one with brains in his head. What--what's it like in there, anyway?" "Dem dark, dirty, and smelly, my boy," was the lieutenant's drawled and expressive reply. "You keep out of it, old sport. Give you my word, my clothes'll smell of rotten eggs for a week. Hullo, though, who's that coming out of it now?" Wertz spun round and looked across at the door which led into the laboratory. "Oh, that's Brunel," he said, carelessly. "Ken's other self, alter ego, and all that sort of thing. Can't bear the man myself. I'll introduce you if you like, and then I'll go along." He performed the ceremony carelessly enough, and then lounged away whistling the latest jazz melody. Left alone, the two men found themselves mentally sizing each other up as men will do, and Cleek decided silently that he liked the look of Max Brunel--but not on account of his appearance. That was not very prepossessing. His face was too scarred from his student days at Heidelberg, and his clothes, which were stained, also reeked of the chemical compounds with which he, like his friend Kenneth, spent his days. But his voice was an attractive one, and his eyes, when unshaded by disfiguring glasses, were clear though undisguisedly penetrating. That he had been let into the secret of the vanished formula was evident by his sudden remark. "This is a rotten business for Ken, my friend, Mr. Deland. Do you think you are likely to make any discovery?" "Well, Mr. Brunel, to tell you the truth and just between ourselves I don't think there is a ghost of a chance. It's gone. I must get a squint into the room and write immediately--you have no telephone, have you?" "No, Mr. Deland, and only one post. At that all the letters have to go by motor to the next town. Lately the Colonel has had all letters censored, so as to be quite sure no knowledge leaks outside."