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 weren’t as interesting scientifically as I’d expected them to be.”

“While his manuscripts and formulae were lying here those two years, did you ever make the gas, o give any study to its behaviour?”

“No, of course not.

It’s off my own line, and didn’t interest me.”

“Then it’s only since this vacuum has begun to make money that it does interest you?”

Dr. Crane twisted his shoulders. “Yes. It’s the money.”

“Heaven knows I’d like to see you get some of it. But why did you put it off so long? Why didn’t you make some claim when you delivered the papers to his executor, since you hadn’t done so before? Why didn’t you bring the matter up to me then, and let me make a claim against the estate for you?” Dr. Crane could endure his chair no longer. He began to walk softly about in his slippers, looking at nothing, but, as he talked, picking up objects here and there,—drawing-tools, his cocoa-cup, a china cream-pitcher, turning them round and carefully putting them down again, just as he often absently handled pieces of apparatus when he was lecturing.

“I know,” he said, “appearances are against me. But you must understand my negligence. You know how little opportunity a man has to carry on his own line of investigation here. You know how much