Paling a little, but with eyes ablaze, he faced the anxious scientist.

“Herzog!  See here!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve got a job for you, understand?”

“Yes, sir.  What is it?”

“A big job, and one on which your entire future depends.  Put it through, and I’ll do well by you.  Fail, and by the Eternal, I’ll break you!  I can, and will, mark that!  Do you get me?”

“I—­yes, sir—­that is, I’ll do my best, and—­”

“Listen!  You go to work at once, immediately, understand?  Work out for me some process, some practicable method by which the nitrogen and oxygen can both be collected in large quantities from the air.  Everything in my laboratories at Oakwood Heights is at your disposal.  Money’s no object.  Nothing counts, now, but results!

“I want the process all mapped out and ready for me, in its essential outlines, two weeks from today.  If it isn’t—­” His gesture was a menace.  “If it is—­well, you’ll be suitably rewarded.  And no leaks, now.  Not a word of this to any one, understand?  If it gets out, you know what I can do to you, and will!  Remember Roswell; remember Parker Hayes. They let news get to the Dillingham-Saunders people, about the new Tezzoni radio-electric system—­and one’s dead, now, a suicide; the other’s in Sing-Sing for eighteen years.  Remember that—­and keep your mouth shut!”

“Yes, sir.  I understand.”

“All right, then.  A fortnight from today, report to me here.  And mind you, have something to report, or—!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well!  Now, go!”

Thus dismissed, Herzog gathered together his books and papers, blinked a moment with those peculiar wall-eyes of his, arose and, bowing first to Flint and then to the keenly-watching Waldron, backed out of the office.

When the door had closed behind him, Flint turned to his partner with a nervous laugh.

“That’s the way to get results, eh?” he exclaimed.  “No dilly-dallying and no soft soap; but just lay the lash right on, hard—­they jump then, the vermin!  Results!  That fellow will work his head off, the next two weeks; and there’ll be something doing when he comes again.  You’ll see!”

Waldron laughed nonchalantly.  Once more the mask of indifference had fallen over him, veiling the keen, incisive interest he had shown during the interview.

“Something doing, yes,” he drawled, puffing his cigar to a glow.  “Only I advise you to choose your men.  Some day you’ll try that on a real man—­one of the rough-necks you know, and—­”

Flint snapped his fingers contemptuously, gazed at Waldron a moment with unwinking eyes and tugged at his mustache.

“When I need advice on handling men, I’ll ask for it,” he rapped out.  Then, glancing at the Louis XIV clock:  “Past the time for that C.P.S. board-meeting, Wally.  No more of this, now.  We’ll talk it over at the Country Club, tonight; but for the present, let’s dismiss it from our minds.”