It
seemed to me to be an unnecessary caution, for we knew Whitney was
down-stairs and would probably be there a long time. But he
seemed to think it necessary. Positive that we were alone, he made
a hasty survey of the rooms. Then he seemed to select as a
starting-point a table in one corner of the sitting-room on which
lay a humidor and a heavy metal box for cigarettes.
Quickly he sprinkled on the floor, from the hall door to the table
on which the case of cigarettes lay, some of the powder which I
had seen him wrap up in the laboratory before we left. Then, with
the atomizer, he sprayed over it something that had a pungent,
familiar odour--walking backwards from the hall door to the table,
as he sprayed.
"Don't you want more light?" I asked, starting to cross to a
window to let the moonlight stream in.
"Don't walk on it, Walter," he whispered, pushing me back. "No, I
don't need any more light."
"What are you doing?" I asked, mystified at his actions.
"First I sprinkled some powdered iodine on the floor," he replied,
"and then sprayed over just enough ammonia to moisten it. It will
evaporate quickly, leaving what I call my anti-burglar powder."
"I'm sure I wouldn't be thought one of the fraternity for the
world," I observed, stepping aside to give him all the room he
wanted in which to operate.
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