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Updated: May 31, 2025
His cigarette glowed fiercely in the dimness before he took up his tale again. "You all know who Dr. Schermerhorn was. None of you know I don't know myself, though I've been his factotum for ten years along how many varied lines of activity that mind played. One of them was the secret of energy: concentrated, resistless energy. Man's contrivances were too puny for him.
It was picturesque stuff for my purpose, but wasn't in it with what the old fellow had really done. He showed me well, that doesn't matter. The point is, that good, staid, self-centred, or rather science-centred, Dr. Schermerhorn was standing at midnight in a dark alley on the Barbary Coast in San Francisco talking to an individual whose facial outline at least was not ornamental.
A strange and unearthly light had fallen on the world, and the air was quite still. After a while I heard Handy Solomon and Dr. Schermerhorn join the group. "There you are, Perfessor," cried Handy Solomon, in tones of the greatest heartiness, "I'll put her right there, and she'll be as safe as a babby at home. She's heavy, though." Dr. Schermerhorn laughed a pleased and excited laugh.
Neatly lettered on the inside, in the fine and slightly angular writing characteristic of the Teutonic scholar, was the legend: Karl Augustus Schermerhorn, 1409-1/2 Spruce Street, Philadelphia, Pa. The opposite page was blank. Captain Parkinson turned half a dozen leaves. "German!" he cried, in a note of disappointment, "Can you read German script?" "After a fashion," replied the other.
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