The Marquis readily handled
it; it was cool and flexible between his fingers. An exclamation of
alarm went up; the workmen fled in terror. Valentin was left alone
with Planchette in the empty workshop.
"There is certainly something infernal in the thing!" cried Raphael,
in desperation. "Is no human power able to give me one more day of
existence?"
"I made a mistake, sir," said the mathematician, with a penitent
expression; "we ought to have subjected that peculiar skin to the
action of a rolling machine. Where could my eyes have been when I
suggested compression!"
"It was I that asked for it," Raphael answered.
The mathematician heaved a sigh of relief, like a culprit acquitted by
a dozen jurors. Still, the strange problem afforded by the skin
interested him; he meditated a moment, and then remarked:
"This unknown material ought to be treated chemically by re-agents.
Let us call on Japhet--perhaps the chemist may have better luck than
the mechanic."
Valentin urged his horse into a rapid trot, hoping to find the
chemist, the celebrated Japhet, in his laboratory.
"Well, old friend," Planchette began, seeing Japhet in his armchair,
examining a precipitate; "how goes chemistry?"
"Gone to sleep.
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