rock. Then Cesare charged, the fellow fled, losing small quantities as the liquid splashed out. At last the man observed the puncture and turned the can over and there the trail ended.”
M. Demetriovich pushed his coffee cup toward Pablo without interrupting his deductions.
“I should say Cesare's bullet entered the can about an inch below the level of the liquid. That would explain why a continuous trail did not mark the fugitive.”
“But why would one scientist be ambushing civilized men in a heaven-forsaken place like this?” cried Standifer in slightly supercilious tones. “And why should he carry a canister of chlorophyll around with him?”
Pethwick tapped the table with his fingers.
“It's unfair to demand the fellow's occupation, race, color and previous condition of servitude,” he objected. Then after a moment: “I wish we could find Ruano ——”
M. Demetriovich stirred his coffee and looked into it without drinking, a Latin habit he had formed in the Rumanian cafés.
“If I may be so bold, señores,” put in Pablo Pasca, “a scientist—a lone scientist would go crazy in a place like this.”
This remark, while as improbable as the other guesses, nevertheless spread its suggestion of tragedy over the situation.
“Nobody knows the action of chlorophyll exactly,” brooded M. Demetriovich. “Somehow it crystalizes the energy in sunlight. If some man had developed a method to bottle the sun's energy directly, he would probably pursue his investigations in the tropics——”
“And he might desire secrecy,” added Pethwick, “so much so that he would even——”
“You mean he would murder Cesare?” finished Standifer.
“A certain type of scientific mind might do that, gentlemen,” agreed Demetriovich gravely.
“What sort, professor?”
“There are only a few countries in the world capable of producing a chemist who could experiment with chlorophyll and sunlight——”
The diners looked at the old scientist expectantly.
“Of these, I know only one country whose national creed is ruthlessness, only one whose chemists would kill an Indian on the bare possibility that the Indian might divulge his secret process—or his political affiliations.”
“You mean he could be a German royalist?” queried Pethwick.
“If the Germans could synthesize the sun's energy and thus transform it directly into food, they would certainly be in a position to bid again for world dominion,” stated M. Demetriovich positively. “It would annul a blockade of the seas. It would render unnecessary millions of men working in the fields and put them on the battlefront.”
“But that's fantastic, professor!” cried Pethwick, “That's getting outside of probability.”
“The green splotches themselves are outside of probability, Mr. Pethwick,” stated the old savant gravely, “but they are here nevertheless.”
“The moon is rising,” observed Standifer casually.
The secretary's silly and trivial breaks into the conversation irritated Pethwick. He turned and said——
“Well, that doesn't bother me; does it you?”
“Oh, no,” said Standifer, taking the rather tart remark in good faith. “I like to watch the moon rise. If I may say it, all my best literary ideas are evolved under the moonlight.”
“Trot on out and see if you can't think up something good,” suggested the engineer.
Standifer caught this sarcasm, flushed slightly but did get up and walk out through the tent entrance. A moment later the two men followed him, leaving the things to Pablo.
The rising moon centered their attention with the first glint of its disk between two peaks far down the valley. The last bronze twilight lingered in the west. The men shivered with the chill of coming night.
Despite Pethwick's jibe at the poetical influence of the moon as expressed by the secretary, the engineer felt it himself.
“It looks whiter, more silvery in this latitude,” he observed after a continued silence.
“That mist about it looks like the veil of a bride,” mused the author.
“May do it,” said the engineer, who despised similes, “but it looks more like a mist around the moon.”
“What's the matter with you, anyway, Pethwick?” snapped Standifer, wheeling around. “Just because you lack the gift of poetical expression is no reason why you should make an ass of yourself and bray every time I utter a well-turned phrase!”
“Was that what you were doing?” inquired the older man.
“It was, and if——” Standifer broke off suddenly and stared, then in amazement gasped—
“For Heaven's sake!”
“What is it?” Both the older men followed his gaze.
Standifer was staring into the fading sky utterly bewildered.
Pethwick shook him.
“What is it?”
The secretary pointed skyward.
They followed his finger and saw against the dull west the delicate silver crescent of a new moon.
It required half an instant for the incoherence of their two observations to burst upon them. The next impulse, all three turned.
The full moon they had seen rising in the east had disappeared. The mist, a phosphorescent mist, still hung about the peaks; indeed it seemed to settle on the distant crags and cliffs and glow faintly in the gathering darkness. It defined a sort of spectral mountain-scape. Then, before their astounded gaze, it faded into darkness.
A scratching sound caused Pethwick to shiver. It was Pablo striking a match inside the tent.
