that cellar I felt as if I were in church. Tell me, man, what did I do down there?"
"You went on your knees," Marek muttered with a bitter smile, and began striding up and down the room.
Bondy stroked his bald head in bewilderment.
"That's extraordinary. But come, on my knees? Well, then, tell me what . . . what is there in the cellar that acts on one so queerly?"
"The Karburator," growled Marek, gnawing his lips. His cheeks seemed even more sunken than before, and were as pale as death.
"But, confound it, man," cried Bondy in amazement, "how can it be?"
The engineer only shrugged his shoulders, and with bent head went on pacing up and down the room.
G. H. Bondy's eyes followed him with childish astonishment. "The man's crazy," he said to himself. "All the same, what the devil is it that comes over one in that cellar? That tormenting bliss, that tremendous security, that terror, that overwhelming feeling of devotion, or whatever you like to call it." Mr. Bondy arose and poured himself out another dash of brandy.
"I say, Marek," he said, "I've got it now."
"Got what?" exclaimed Marek, halting.
"That business in the cellar. That queer psychi-
