I. A. R. Wylie

“ Rogers turned sharply and confronted Delisle, but with lowered head so that the bearded half of his face was in shadow. “This is the body of the machine, but the soul is missing. Without the soul it is no more than a mass of useless iron. And I am the only one who knows how the soul is made.” ”

“ Make your bargain, Rochefort!”
The Frenchman turned at once. His manner had changed, had become coldly matter of fact.
“Your honor, your position, are in my hands,” he said. “I have no wish to ruin you—you are nothing to me. But I must have money. I know what this invention is worth and I can get our price for it, Let it be completed. Call it by any name you like, offer it to the English government, fly it your- self—and let it fail.”
“It's a damnable thing——”
“Is it the worst thing you have done? And at the bottom of your soul wouldn't you be glad? ”

“ And afterward—well, if others are more lucky with the machine, who'll know—who'll be able to call you to account?”
“But the dead——” Delisle stammered.
“The dead won't bother you.”
At that moment the storm sank, leaving an interlude of breathless silence. The open window banged to with a jarring crash. Delisle started like a man roused from deep sleep. His eyes passed idly from Rochefort's white face to the shadowy corners of the great shed.
“I'm not free,” he said loudly and defiantly. “I can't help myself. I'm bound hand and foot. ”