She did not hurry.  “I’ll give him time to put the explosive back,” she thought.  It was just possible that it would be set on a bench, perhaps in an awkward place, but from her knowledge of Van de Greutz’s ways she guessed not.  It was also, of course, possible that the cupboard where it was kept would be locked; in that case, nothing could be done just now—­annoying, but not desperate; ground rice will keep, and, apparently, explosives too, so she reflected as she opened the laboratory door.  But the cupboard was not locked, and the bottle was back in its place.  Another from the shelf above had been taken out; the chemists were discussing that as they sat smoking cigars at the table far down the room, where the coffee cups stood.

“More Schiedam!” Herr Van de Greutz said, throwing the words at Julia over his shoulder.  “Why did you bring an empty bottle?”

“I am sorry, Mijnheer,” Julia answered; “there was not much, I know; I have brought more.”

She pushed the door to with her foot as she spoke, and with the hand not carrying the spirit set down the duster and the bottle it held on a chair.  The German had put his coat over the chair earlier; it stood in front of the cupboard, a little way from it.  With the true rogue’s eye for cover, Julia noted the value of its position, and even improved it by moving it a little to the left as she knocked against it in passing.

She brought the Schiedam to the table.  “Shall I take the cups, Mijnheer?” she asked.

“Yes,” Van de Greutz answered shortly, resenting the interruption, “and go to the devil.  As I was saying, it is very unstable.”

This was to the German, and did not concern Julia; she took the tray of cups and went.  But near the door there was an iron tripod lying on the floor; she caught her foot in it, stumbled and fell headlong, dropping tray and cups with a great clatter.

There was a general exclamation of annoyance and anger from Van de Greutz, of surprise and commiseration from the German, and of something that might have been fright or pain from Julia.

“You clumsy fool!” Van de Greutz cried.  “Get out of here, and don’t let me see your face, or hear your trampling ass-hoofs again!  Do you hear me, I won’t have you in here again!”

The German was more sympathetic.  “Have you hurt yourself?” he asked.

“No, Mijnheer, nothing,” Julia answered; “only a little—­my knees and elbows.”  Had she been playing Othello, though she might not have blacked herself all over, it is certain she would have carried the black a long way below high water mark.  This was no painless stage stumble, but one with real bruises and a real thud.

The German had half risen; perhaps he thought of coming to help pick up the pieces of broken cups that were scattered between the cupboard and the chair.  But he did not do so, for Herr Van de Greutz went on to speak of his unstable compound.