“It is the war powder in flakes, but I intend to manufacture it in pastilles. Then it will resemble an ordinary button without holes. In flakes it is more convenient for charging large projectiles. In pastilles it will be better suited for cartridge sockets. Non-compressed it burns like German tinder, with a smell of disinfecting powder, and entirely without smoke. Would you like to see it?” “No!” said Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not care to see you handling such substances. One never knows! They might explode without any one expecting it!” “Impossible! Besides, as this powder smells of camphor it might be placed with one’s clothes during the summer to prevent the moths from spoiling them.” He laughed aloud. Uncle Graff, slightly reassured, forced him to place the bottle back on to the table. “And the commerce powder?” “I have none manufactured. But the formula is already there in the drawer.” “With this formula Trémont’s discovery may be exploited?” “Certainly, on condition one knows how to make use of it. But that is my secret, which I shall reveal only at the moment the exploitation commences. The different kinds of products employed, with their dosings, are specified.” Opening a drawer he took out a sheet of paper, at the head of which were written the words: Powder Formula. No. I. Then followed lines of abbreviated words, with figures. “Leave it in this drawer; I do not need it just now. You will give it me this evening, after the conference. Then I will write to your father and send on the paper to him.” “As you please,” said Marcel. Placing back the paper he shut the drawer. Uncle Graff left the room saying— “I am going to see Cardez; if you want me you will find me with him.” Marcel, left all alone, walked up and down the laboratory, then drew near the open window, and looked out on to the river flowing beneath. A fisherman was sitting there in a boat, moored in the middle of the stream, engaged in throwing baked grain as bait into the water all around him. A large straw hat covered his head, whilst the wind blew out his grey smock-frock into the form of a balloon. He did not appear even to see Marcel, but filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and began to throw out his line, at the end of which was a ball of worms as bait. After a few moments a bite came, he struck adroitly, and landed a small silver-bellied fish in the boat. Marcel, interested, sat and watched from the window-ledge. After watching for a good quarter of an hour, the fisher, in his smock-frock, who, by the way, appeared to have the best of luck, the door of the laboratory opened, and Baudoin appeared. He seemed embarrassed, but came straight up to his master, and said, in tones of seeming regret— “Monsieur Marcel, there is some one at the porter’s lodge who is asking for you.” “Who is it?” Baudoin said, with a wry grimace— “A kind of chambermaid.”