ck! You have never actually heard the lady's voice!"
And as this was true I had nothing further to offer; but he brightened
up, adding: "We shall now go to the stomach of the bomb, if only to
enjoy ourselves."

"You've a curious idea of fun," I grunted.

"Just go easy," Tommy said. "She may be ticklish."

"Why not sink the wicked thing at once, sir," Gates urged. "We've seen
enough now to keep us awake nights, and I haven't any craving to look at
its stomach, Lor' knows I haven't!"

But the professor would not listen. Already he had recommenced the
exploration, gingerly removing some wires wrapped about the explosive
center, while we almost held our breaths lest he touch the wrong thing.
Once he smiled, and murmured: "_Le capitaine_ is right--it was made on
the _Orchid_!" Yet he did not stop work for this, and soon brought to
view two half sticks of dynamite, one of them ingeniously capped.
Leaning above this now, with his elbows on the table and his head in his
hands, he sank into a profound study, then startled us by giving a snort
and springing up, jostling the table so violently that the dynamite slid
gracefully toward the edge. Most happily Tommy grabbed it in time.

"Lor', sir, 'twas a close shave," Gates whispered, wiping his forehead.

But Monsieur remained blissfully unconscious of the mess so narrowly
averted. He was staring, breathing heavily, blinking and thinking. As
though walking in his sleep he again went to his mysterious bags, took
out something and began to study it through the lens. Then with a yell
he rushed at me, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, held me off, and
hugged me again, crying over and over:

"I am right--I am right--I am right!"

He now caromed from me and in the same manner embraced Tommy, and after
this he tackled Gates. But Gates did not understand the continental
fashion of masculine salutations, and sternly disengaged himself,
saying:

"You carn't be right, sir! I don't know what's the matter, but it's easy
to see you carn't just be right!"

"_Sacre bleu!_" Monsieur stepped back, actually weeping with happiness.
"What stupid idiots we are! Can't you see?"

"I can see one," Tommy grinned at him sweetly.

"Ah, but look!" He thrust before us the thing he had taken from the bag.
It was that precious kodak film of Sylvia. "Look!" he cried. "You say
she is near to twenty--he, to seventy-five! But, more than all, I see
with my lens that here is the breathing likeness of the