Free The Complete Adventures of Hazard & Partridge by Robert J. Pearsall Page B

illusion. Trickery and thieving always seem to me to belong to the mainly good but complicated world of clay, rather than to the sea, which is changeable, sometimes terrible, but always clean, simple and honest.
    Damron began by a rather loose discussion of energy in general. From that he passed to the gradual tapping by mankind of various reservoirs of energy, each release meaning a forward step in the march of civilization. And so he came naturally to his major premise, which was, of course, that the greatest and cheapest supply of energy remained as yet untouched—the energy of the air.
    It was at that point that the smell of violets in the room began to be distinguishable. That is, by me, who had been expecting it. Damron didn’t get it yet, nor did Sanderson; both were too deeply absorbed in Damron’s talk.
    He had the gift of words. He understood the art of moving minds, and he used it. Leaning back in that chair with an inspired face, he brought into that cabin the winds of the world—those winds which are everywhere and come from everywhere, and he set them to work.
    He brought into that cabin the industries of the world and showed them revolutionized. And he had started to deal—using sketchy touches that I admired—with the recently perfected air motor that was to turn the trick—a device, I believe, of vast, scientifically shaped funnels for the concentration of power and a new form of battery for its storage—when he first became conscious of that violet breath, which reacted upon him like the breath of doom itself.
    He faltered, as I’ve said, grew pale, glanced obliquely at me and seemed from the uneasiness that grew in his eyes to catch for the first time some significance in my position squarely before the door.
    I rather felt sorry for the rogue—it’s a weakness I have—but my eyes fell on old man Sanderson, sitting there enthralled again by Damron’s eloquence, and my heart hardened. Unmercifully Damron had fleeced him, and the winds of life are seldom tempered to the shorn old. For not the first time in my life I felt grateful for that sort of ultra-roguery that must needs load its dice as well as unfairly throw them. Had Damron relied entirely upon wordy persuasion, I believe he would still have had his way with Sanderson, and there would have been small chance of recourse.
    However, as Damron’s voice trailed away, I put in a word:
    “It’s fascinating. Transmutation, air turned into gold—Sanderson, didn’t you tell me you’d purchased some stock in this scheme?”
    Sanderson started, looked reproachfully at me and uneasily at Damron.
    “I did tell him about it,” he mumbled apologetically to Damron. “He had some money he wanted to invest. I thought you wouldn’t mind—”
    “Oh, of course not,” replied Damron, trying to cover his sudden accession of fear with cordiality. “We don’t want publicity now,” turning to me, “for a plain reason; it’s a matter for careful handling and international financing. However, you’re an exception; Sanderson and I both seemed to arrive separately at the same conclusion. I was going to offer to let you in—”
    “Thanks,” I replied rather carelessly. “What a peculiar odor, in the middle of the Pacific!” I sniffed the air.
    “I was just going to speak of that,” rejoined Damron quickly. “Somehow, I feel ill. The air in this cabin—”
    “Will clear presently, I’m sure.” And I shot him a significant glance that checked him in the very act of rising from his chair.
    Sanderson, possibly catching my glance, certainly observing the change in Damron’s manner, glanced from one to the other of us, puzzled.
    “It’s a queer smell,” he began, “but I don’t see—”
    “There was nothing like this the other night when you bought the stock, was there?” I asked.
    “No, there wasn’t. Why?”
    “Sanderson told me a peculiar yarn about that night,” I explained to Damron. “The way he felt, you know.”
    Carelessly